


country boy, i love you

by floweryfran, peterstank



Series: stankyflower verse [7]
Category: Fantastic Four, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, also features irondad, and copious amounts of the gang hanging out because we love them, and lots of zingers! one liners! and pining, and spideychelle, its time to watch these two idiots fall in love, will feature a fancy new year’s party, yeehaw boys! hope you brought your cowboy boots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 83,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24414130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweryfran/pseuds/floweryfran, https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterstank/pseuds/peterstank
Summary: The elevator doors chime.Johnny is a little bit like a dog, so even now he can’t help looking over at the sound of laughter and raised voices. Both of them are familiar to him and both of them are welcome; they sort of make his stomach swoop and then settle like a rollercoaster car doing a loop and levelling out.Peter. Harley.Peter’s big belly laugh dies in his throat the second he sees Johnny. He steps forward, brows furrowing. “Jay? What are you doing here? What happened?”And Johnny is capable of many things, but ignoring Peter Parker is not one of them.His mouth opens and the faintest, most strangled sound escapes, straining against the raw walls of his throat.And then he just starts crying.or: johnny relearns the meaning of home.
Relationships: Harley Keener/Johnny Storm, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Series: stankyflower verse [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1754236
Comments: 415
Kudos: 307





	1. NOVEMBER

**Author's Note:**

> oh god. here we GO!

Six of them go up to space: Johnny, Ben, Sue, Reed, and the kids. 

Only two of them come back down again. 

Ben fucks off the minute they touch base without even a word, like smoke on the wind. 

Johnny finds himself wandering the streets of New York alone, covered in blood and stardust and sweat, colder than he’s ever felt. 

He doesn’t even know where he’s going until he gets there. By then it’s raining and there are winds blowing—cold and sharp and powerful enough to pierce right through his chest and make him shiver. Johnny doesn’t bother with trying to warm himself up. 

He stands on the sidewalk outside of the Stark building for a long while before he finally works up the energy to walk inside.

It’s not about courage at all. Johnny isn’t even thinking. His body is moving on its own, past the people loitering in the lobby and the secretary who asks for ID and then, when he ignores her, shouts that he can’t use the elevator. 

A security guard grabs at his wrist and Johnny doesn’t say anything. He does look up though, right at the guy’s face, and notes when his eyes widen with recognition. 

“You’re Johnny Storm,” he says, awed. 

Johnny thinks something like, _Yeah, I get that a lot,_ but the words don’t actually come out of his mouth. 

The guy lets go. He says something to the receptionist and then nods at Johnny. “You can go up.”

“Bruce!” the receptionist shouts shrilly. 

“He’s the _Human Torch,_ Janice,” Bruce snaps. “He probably has like, urgent superhero business with Stark.”

Janice purses her lips and then hits the button that opens the elevators. Johnny barely spares them another glance. He heads for the open doors and steps inside, pressing the shiny silver button for floor 113, which Johnny vaguely remembers Peter having mentioned is the penthouse. _Unlucky thirteen. What a terrible omen for the softest man alive._

The doors close behind him. 

Johnny rests his head against the cool, mirrored metal. He stands there, breathing hard and soaking wet and shaking, dripping all over the tile. 

He doesn’t care. 

Johnny must leave his body for a hot second because the next thing he knows, he’s facing a luxuriously furnished living room. There’s a fancy bar cart laden with all kinds of amber liquor and crystal glasses, and a pristine white leather couch with chairs to match. 

But there are also other things that don’t seem to belong, like the X-Box console hooked up to the TV and the blankets thrown everywhere haphazardly—peeking out from beneath the coffee table, half-underneath the ottoman, hanging from the corner of the TV; there’s even a half finished game of Monopoly laid out on the floor. Johnny wonders who was winning. 

Something clatters. It catches Johnny’s attention and his head swivels to his right, toward the kitchen. He can just see the torso of a man between the gap in the cupboards and counter. Said man ducks so he can get a look at Johnny right back. 

“Um,” he says, “ _Scusatemi?”_

Johnny blinks. 

So does Tony Stark. 

“Okay,” he sets down a blender full of green stuff. “Okay, hi. You don’t look so good there. You’re that pyromaniac kid, right? Johnny Storm?” 

The sound of his own name doesn’t seem right falling from Tony Stark’s mouth. It is the name of a stranger, of a boy who doesn’t belong to anyone anymore. 

Stark edges closer like a hunter trying not to startle a deer. “Pete’s told me a lot about you. Wanna tell me what’s got you so shell-shocked?”

Johnny does, in his head. He explains the whole thing. It unfolds in his brain like a scene from a movie, but doesn’t transfer into reality. His mouth stays locked shut, lips chapped and sealed. 

“No talking?” Tony Stark nods. “Okay, I can do that. I talk enough for the both of us anyway, huh? You wanna sit?”

It’s phrased like a question but it sounds more like a politely worded order: _You wanna sit._

And Johnny agrees. He would very much like to sit. 

So he does, with Stark’s hand on his back and then on his shoulder, squeezing a little when Johnny’s ass makes contact with the leather of the couch seat. It smells like pumpkin spice in here. Must be a candle or something. 

“I’m baking a pie,” Stark says, like he can read Johnny’s mind and desperately needs to correct him. “Well actually, Pepper is baking, I’m watching. She had a meeting thing to attend—told me to sit in front of the oven and make sure the crust didn’t burn like I’m some kind of five year old who can be entertained with stupid shit like that. Which, frankly, she’s right, and I can. Anyway, you’re sopping wet, so let’s, uh…” he trails off, looking around, and then snatches up a blanket. “Here. I’ll go get you a sweatshirt from Pete’s room, okay? Stay planted.”

Johnny does, mostly because he doesn’t have anywhere to go as it is. 

Stark comes back a couple of minutes later with a clean towel and a sweatshirt. Then he plops down on the padded coffee table and gingerly starts to dry Johnny’s hair. 

Johnny sits there like a kicked dog, staring at his feet, heart rate slowing. 

Peter was right. There _is_ a magical Dad-ness to Tony Stark. 

It’s especially apparent when the towel is pulled away. Those brown eyes are a lot softer without sunglasses in front of them. Stark mutters something under his breath and then says, “Arms up a little?” so he can work the sweatshirt over Johnny’s shoulders. 

It’s big. Smells like apple body wash and teenage boy. There’s a hole in the bottom hem and it literally says: I AM A CINNAMON BABY in big black letters against the grey fabric. It’s one of those cheap personalised ones people order online. 

“Okay,” Stark says, nodding like he’s satisfied with his work. “Feel better?”

Johnny can’t even nod back. He can’t move his body anymore. Thankfully he’s saved from answering when the oven beeps. 

Stark curses and runs over to it, rushing to remove the pie before it turns into a lump of char. His oven mitt slips and he swears in Italian, dropping the pan onto the counter so he can run cold water over the burn. 

Johnny watches all of this unfold with little feeling or reaction. 

The elevator doors chime. 

Johnny is a little bit like a dog, so even now he can’t help looking over at the sound of laughter and raised voices. Both of them are familiar to him and both of them are welcome; they sort of make his stomach swoop and then settle like a rollercoaster car doing a loop and levelling out. 

Peter. Harley. 

Peter’s big belly laugh dies in his throat the second he sees Johnny. He steps forward, brows furrowing. “Jay? What are you doing here? What happened?”

And Johnny is capable of many things, but ignoring Peter Parker is not one of them. 

His mouth opens and the faintest, most strangled sound escapes, straining against the raw walls of his throat. 

And then he just starts crying.

He can’t even see because of the tears but he _feels_ it when Peter makes contact, grasping at him, pulling him in. Johnny’s whole body wracks and he keeps trying to stop, keeps trying to breathe, but he can’t. He can’t do anything but sob over and over and over again, lungs strained and aching. He feels utterly shredded. 

“Johnny,” Peter says, wide-eyed. “Hey, what happened?”

“They’re _dead,_ ” he chokes out, and, God, it takes _everything_ he has just to say it. Once he starts he just can’t stop. “They’re all dead and Ben’s gone and the kids—” Johnny gasps, “—the kids and Reed and—” 

“Hey, slow down.” Peter’s got one hand on the back of Johnny’s neck. He is the black cable to Johnny’s car battery; the thing dragging him back to the ground, back to Earth. “In through the nose and hold for three, okay?”

Johnny nods. He does what Peter says to do because Peter’s usually right. Johnny starts to feel a little less lightheaded. He does it again and this time scrubs his cheeks dry. His hands fly to his hair and grip it hard. 

“You’re sure they’re gone?” Peter whispers. 

It’s the strangest question until Johnny realises that Peter—stupid, amazing Peter, his best bro—is asking because if there’s _any_ chance to save them, he’s gonna take it and run with it. 

But there isn’t. 

So Johnny says, “Yeah.” 

Peter runs a hand down his face and looks at Stark and they start talking with their eyes. The conversation ends abruptly when Peter returns his attention to Johnny. “I… I’m so sorry, Jay. I don’t even know what to say.” 

“Me neither.”

There’s nothing. No words manage to encompass the empty, hollow feeling in the centre of his chest—the black hole sucking the life and warmth from him, just as it had sucked up his family. 

He’s all alone. 

“Hot cocoa,” Tony Stark blurts. “Hot cocoa will help.”

* * *

A few minutes later they’re all sitting around the living room cradling big, Friends-sized mugs of hot chocolate. Peter and Tony are talking in hushed tones. Johnny stares out the windows and watches the rain pelt the glass. 

Harley Keener hovers nearby but not quite close. 

He hasn’t said a single word since he sat down, leveled by the death ray eyes Peter sent him after he had suggested, stammering, that he leave for a while. 

He did not leave. He is a blurry figure in Johnny’s peripheral vision, a mini-earthquake shaking the couch with his bouncing knee. 

Johnny hasn’t touched his hot cocoa. 

“She screamed,” he blurts, because he can’t stop thinking about it and his eyes are burning and so is his chest; it’s like someone is sitting on it. “I’ve never… I’ve never heard her scream like that. She was so _scared.”_

“Johnny,” Peter says, and that’s all. 

Johnny swallows. He feels nauseous but stands regardless, anxious and hot now: blood boiling, skin searing. 

“I should probably get out of here. I just—I didn’t know where else to go. Needed a place to cool off. I’m sorry for crashing your Thanksgiving. Um, thanks for the—the towel—”

And he’s already making for the elevator, turning his back on Peter and Stark’s stunned expressions, when someone grabs his wrist. 

Keener. 

Johnny looks down. 

Brown eyes look right back, but they’re not Stark’s kind of brown. These are flecked with gold, like sun-soaked Earth. They narrow a little. “Sit down.”

Johnny sits. 

“Was that stupid?”

“Yeah,” says Harley, “but that’s okay. You’re in shock.”

“I know,” Johnny agrees. “Tony gave me a blanket.”

“He did,” Harley says, and grabs said blanket to wrap around Johnny’s shoulders again. He pushes him back a little, just enough so Johnny sinks against the cushions. “Drink the hot chocolate, would you?”

Johnny drinks. It tastes watery. His nose wrinkles. “You didn’t use milk,” he says to Tony. 

Reed always used milk. 

Johnny starts to cry again.

* * *

It’s a few hours later when Pepper Potts sweeps into the penthouse, takes one look at all of them, and zeroes in on Johnny. 

“What happened?” she asks them all at large. “Is he okay? Are you okay, sweetie?”

“I—yeah,” Johnny says like an idiot, because he absolutely doesn’t want to inconvenience Virginia Pepper Potts, very cool CEO of the world’s largest tech conglomerate, in any capacity. 

“No,” Peter corrects. “He—Harley, can you um—can you help Johnny clean up?”

Harley shoots to his feet like a box spring and holds his hand out to Johnny, who lets himself be hauled up. He has no idea what’s going on and doesn’t have the energy to ask, nor does he really care to. 

Harley leads him down the hall. The bathroom door closes behind them and raised voices follow shortly thereafter. 

Harley winces. “They’re pretty high strung, huh?” 

_They are?_ Johnny wants to snark, but his voice isn’t working again. He just shrugs. 

Harley clears his throat. He jerks for the sink and runs the water to warm, grabs a rag, and dampens it. “You can, uh, sit if you want?”

Johnny sits on the closed toilet seat. Harley settles down opposite him on the edge of the porcelain tub. “Is it alright if I—?”

“It’s fine,” Johnny rasps.

They’re not strangers, he and Harley, but they aren’t exactly _close._ They’ve texted on and off since they met a few weeks ago, kept talking even when Harley went back to Rose Hill for his mid-terms. Now he’s back for Thanksgiving break. 

They’re not close, but Johnny likes him. He likes him a stupid amount, actually. He kind of thinks Harley Keener is the greatest thing since sliced bread, dorky TikToks and all. 

But Johnny is too drained to remember all of that—to feel it wriggle in the pit of his stomach, tightrope-style unsteady—right now. He barely processes Harley’s gentle touch as he swipes the washcloth under his eyes and down the slope of his nose, removing the concealer Johnny had applied that morning and revealing his hideous freckles for the whole world to see. He misses the way Harley’s lip quirks up at the sight of them, and doesn’t even register it when Harley’s thumb accidentally brushes the corner of his mouth. 

(But he will. Weeks later, he will, and it’ll hit him like a train.)

Harley leans back. “You wanna rinse off?”

Johnny doesn’t _want_ anything right now except to be held by Sue. He doesn’t _want_ anything except for Frankie to hop out from behind the shower curtain and announce that it was all some big joke, a stupid prank. 

And then Johnny could laugh and he could hug his stupid nephew and kiss him on his curly head. He could tell him the things he never said enough: _It’s okay, I love you._

None of that happens. 

Harley says he’s gonna find Johnny some clean clothes. 

* * *

Johnny sits down in the shower because it just seems like the day for it. 

He stares at the wall for a really long time. 

Or maybe it’s only a few minutes. It’s hard to tell.

Steam curls around his body. His skin turns red but he doesn’t feel the heat. He never feels it anymore. 

After a while he moves, lazily and badly scrubbing the grit from his hair with a bottle of expensive shampoo that’s probably made from like, ground diamonds or something. 

He washes the suds out. Scrubs his body until it’s raw. Turns the water off and stands there for a minute, one hand braced against the wall, just breathing.

The clothes Harley grabbed for him are definitely Peter’s: another baggy sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants to match, which he unconsciously tucks into his socks just to honour their rightful owner. 

They’re all arguing when Johnny stumbles out of the bathroom. 

“I just think that he should stay in an environment that’s familiar to him,” comes Peter’s raised, kind of shrill voice. “He could live with me and May—”

And that, oh God, that makes Johnny’s knees go weak. Two months ago it would have been for a completely different reason, but now it’s the realisation that he is _alone._ His _family is dead._ He needs a new home, new people to live with. 

Next comes Harley’s southern drawl: “How could staying here be good for him, though? If it were you, would you wanna live in a place that constantly reminds you of what you’d lost?!” 

“It _was_ me!” Peter shouts. “I survived because I—”

“You had May,” Harley finishes for him. “Who does he have?”

“He has _me!”_ Peter retorts. He sounds kind of hysterical and it seems like Johnny and Tony Stark are on the same page, because the guy quietly tells Peter to calm down. 

“ _I miei ragazzi,_ ” Stark says, “you’re both making good points, okay? It’s all valid. Your hearts are in the right place. _But,_ I don’t think it should be up to either of you to decide.”

“Johnny isn’t in the right frame of mind to make a decision this big,” Peter says, voice lower now. “He needs help.”

“And I’m offering,” Harley replies.

“But you _barely know him.”_

“So? It’ll be good for him: a change of pace, wide open spaces.”

“But what if he’s not comfortable—”

Harley horks a snort. “You think he’ll be comfortable sleeping on a trundle in your bedroom?”

“He wouldn’t have to sleep on a _trundle.”_

“Peter, I’ve seen your place. It’s two feet big. You’re practically living in a _closet._ I, on the other hand, am _not._ We’ve got a spare bedroom and acres of land and no paps to worry about, no crazy fans to ask for his picture on the street, no pressure, no expectations. _How_ could that be bad for him?”

And when it’s put like that, Johnny’s heart kind of tugs, because it doesn’t sound completely _awful._

He chooses that moment to reveal himself though, because it’s just too much to think about. 

He’s still not… he’s still not sure any of this is real, and what right do they have to play tug of war over him? 

They all shut up at once. Pepper Potts stands and brushes off her skirt. “Are you feeling any better?”

“A little,” Johnny says. “Thanks.”

“That’s no problem,” she replies, earnest and soft and _wow,_ she reminds him of Sue. “There’s a guest room right next to Peter’s that you can sleep in if you want, or we can—we can call someone? Is there… is there anyone else?”

Johnny thinks of Ben and then shakes his head. “No.”

She nods. “Okay. That’s okay. Are you tired?”

_Yes,_ Johnny wants to say. He’s so, so tired. He’s _exhausted._ A part of him is _certain_ that, if he goes to sleep, when he wakes up it’ll all be over, like restarting on a video game. He’ll be back in his bed at the Baxter Building, and maybe Val will run in asking if he wants waffles or pancakes for breakfast. 

His stomach rumbles a little. “Hungry,” he manages. 

She starts to say something, but Johnny is already making a beeline for the kitchen. He snatches up the pie, finds a fork, and just takes a stab right from the middle. Starts eating it from the inside out. It’s good. Warm. 

He shovels down half of it while they watch in collective stunned silence and then says, “Fresh start doesn’t sound so bad.”

Peter opens his mouth. 

“Night,” Johnny says, and carries the rest of the pie to the room Pepper had pointed out. 

* * *

He does not wake up in the Baxter Building. 

Johnny forgets for a little while. In the hazy space between sleeping and waking, he lives in a world where everything is normal. Still clinging to his dreams, there is no tragedy, there is no one to mourn. 

Then he opens his eyes. 

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the world is grey and still, like it's holding its breath for him. Johnny can see the tops of buildings peeking through the fog, the hazy yellow lights shining through frosted panes. 

The first breath is shaky. The one after is even shakier. 

He doesn’t think he can get out of this bed. He doesn’t think he can even find the courage to twitch a limb. Everything feels heavy. Nothing fucking _matters._ All of his life he’s been clinging to the sleeves and belt loops and collars of those that he loves, and what did any of that come to? Where did it land him? 

He couldn’t save them. He couldn’t hold on this time. 

Johnny’s eyes burn and his lip trembles and then he’s crying like a little kid, curling up into a ball and burying his face into his pillow. He thinks of Sue and her smile and the way she’d ruffle his hair; he thinks of Reed’s level voice and warm eyes; Val and Frankie and their ridiculous jokes that no one could ever make sense of, and the way they’d curl up on either side of him to watch reruns of _Hannah Montana._

He loves them. He loves them so, so much. He never said it enough. 

What is he supposed to _do_ with it all now? Where does it _go?_

The door cracks. 

Peter pokes his head inside. 

Johnny sniffs and wipes at his cheeks and tries to stop crying so hard. Peter slips inside and then perches on the edge of the bed, reaching for Johnny’s hand. He squeezes. 

“I know that losing an uncle really doesn’t equate to what you’re going through,” his friend says softly, “and I used to _hate_ it when people compared their losses to mine, you know? Like, huge pet peeve for me right there. But Johnny… After Ben? I felt like I’d lost—God, I don’t even know how to say it. It’s like there was no time, there was no direction. I didn’t know who I was without him. I didn’t know how to be in a world where he wasn’t—”

Peter cuts himself off. His face scrunches up and he squeezes Johnny’s hand as if in apology. “It was just really hard,” he says after a minute. “It was hard to be. It felt like everything had changed, like I couldn’t trust who was gonna be there one second and gone the next. So I just thought if… if maybe you were feeling that way too, I should probably let you know that I’m here, okay? You have me and I’m not going anywhere. If you need someone to, like, lean on—to be there for you—”

He stops talking. 

Johnny’s found the strength to sit up. He wraps his arms around Peter. “Thank you.”

“It’s gonna be okay, Jay,” Peter whispers in reply. “Everything… everything is gonna be okay.”

Coming from anyone else, it probably wouldn’t mean shit. But this is Peter Parker, who’s lost three parents already and nearly lost a fourth a few months ago. 

So Johnny nods. He holds on tight and lets himself believe it. 

He thinks maybe everyone has a little Love Pocket, a place to keep soft feelings like a collection of tiny stuffed Build-A-Bear hearts to hand out, and maybe some pockets are deeper than others or less full. Johnny’s was already fucking overflowing and now there’s no place to put what was inside… 

Except here. He can leave a little bit here with his best friend. 

* * *

“Johnny,” May Parker greets when he slinks into the living room, and she could almost pass for normal if it weren’t for all the pity in her eyes. 

She hugs him, which Johnny knows is pretty on brand for her, but it still feels strange. “Hey, Mrs. Parker.”

They’ve met a couple of times, but the last time he’d seen her—the night he’d quit his stupid job at Subway—she’d told him to call her May. 

She does it again, so he corrects himself with, “Miss May,” and she laughs a little. 

“Pepper told me what happened,” she says lowly, even though they’re the only two in the room. “God, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now.”

_I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now._

“I’m… I’ll be… fine.”

It is, without a doubt, the most pathetic, untrue pile of horseshit ever said. 

May Parker smiles anyway and nods like she believes it, like she really thinks he’ll be okay one day. It kind of bolsters him. 

“Morning,” says Pepper Potts. “Listen, Johnny, what happens today is up to you, okay? We called everyone last night and told them dinner was off, but if you want to invite anyone over—I mean, if having company would make it easier for you, we can do that. It doesn’t matter who it is. Or if you just wanna stick with us, we can do something small. Whatever sounds best.”

Johnny bites his lip. “I… just us? Please?”

Pepper smiles like that’s what she wanted anyway. Then she squeezes his arm and jeez, everyone is doing that. “Sounds good to me.”

The morning passes strangely. Someone puts on the parade even though it’s literally passing by down below—like, they could seriously just look out the window.

  
  
Johnny ends up wedged on the couch between Peter and Harley. They pass a box of cereal back and forth and eat it dry. 

Harley passes Johnny every marshmallow he gets. 

He smells like laundry detergent and something else—something less sharp, like vanilla. 

Johnny feels a tug in his stomach and enough guilt to wash it down. 

He blinks and it’s dark outside. They sit down for dinner in the dining room. Johnny eats mashed potatoes and not much else, mostly because he can just shove that into his mouth and swallow it like he’s an old man neglecting his dentures. 

In Johnny’s family they do the stupid thing where they list off what they’re thankful for. Last year, Johnny had said his Air Jordans, running water and, knowing Val and Frankie we’re starting to pout, his _dorky niece and nephew._

They don’t do that in this house, or maybe just not while Johnny’s sitting at their table, bloodshot and pale and mostly nonverbal. 

Johnny crawls into bed a little while later. It is night. A day has passed since Sue and Reed and the kids last breathed. 

_I am thankful for every second I got with you,_ Johnny thinks as his eyes close. 

* * *

The last few days of Thanksgiving break pass in a blur. Johnny is vaguely aware of events unfolding around him. Tony and Pepper are busy pulling strings so he can transfer schools last minute. Peter comes by every day and brings Johnny too much ice cream and asks, _Do you need anything? Do you want to see the others before you go? Are you sure, Johnny? You know you can stay with me, Jay._

Johnny says _No, No, Yes,_ and _I know that._

But he doesn’t want to stay with Peter. He can’t quite put his finger on why. Maybe it’s because a teeny sliver of him is still disappointed that the guy isn’t single, and while he’s mostly over his crush, there’s still an isolated awkwardness he feels. 

Maybe it’s because of what Harley said about being reminded of them every time he turns a corner. It’s already like that here; the Stark building is so much like home it almost feels like he’s walked into a parallel dimension where everything is just a _little_ bit off. 

Maybe he’s just feeling destructive and wants to burn bridges, sparks spitting from his eyes rather than tears. 

Either way, he’s going. He sort of feels like a piece of driftwood being carried by the current, but he’s going. 

Harley is good about it. He hypes up Rose Hill even though he’s spent the duration of the time they’ve been friends complaining about it. He tells Johnny, “Mama’s cleaning out the attic for you back home, so you’ll have plenty of space to yourself. It’s real neat, actually. There’s a skylight in the ceiling.”

_We had an observatory at the Baxter Building,_ Johnny thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud. 

Speaking of the Baxter Building—

“I need to go back before we leave.”

Johnny makes this proclamation at breakfast one morning. He, Harley, and Peter are sitting at the counter together while Tony Stark makes waffles in the kitchen. The guy is crazy: he’s been putting sprinkles and chocolate chips in them and then dusting them all with powdered sugar, like he _wants_ them to get hyper or something. 

“Back?”

“Home. To get my things.”

He’s been living out of Peter’s dresser drawers for three days. No more. 

His best friend starts to say something—probably like, _I’ll go for you, you shouldn’t have to face that_ —but then Stark nods. 

“We’ll go today, then. Eat up, muchachos.”

They do, though on Johnny’s part it’s less about having an appetite and more about having a small task to complete. Every day he gets through because he knows at least three times he will consistently have to shovel something into his face hole and work it down his gullet. 

Grief is funky that way. 

* * *

They make good time. They’re out the door by ten, dressed in too many layers because Tony Stark is a fussy Italian grandmother. 

The Baxter Building isn’t far from Stark Tower, but it’s located south of it and Johnny’s temporary bedroom is on the north end, so he hasn’t really seen it. 

Then he does, and his stomach clenches. Johnny has to stop walking for a second just to stare up at it, big and pristine and home, but not really—not anymore. 

Peter puts a hand on his shoulder. “You good?”

“What? Yeah, super good. I was born for this.”

He’s been doing that for like, two days; making jokes that don’t quite land, and sarcastic remarks that are all the wrong flavour and mistimed. He’s way offbeat. 

But Peter doesn’t say anything. He just stays close. He and Harley both do, actually. They hover over Johnny’s shoulders like ushers at a funeral.

And that’s what this feels like: a funeral march.

Except the only person Johnny plans to bury is his old self. 

Getting inside is easy as pie, but packing up his things isn’t nearly as painless. Stark brought a few folded up boxes for him to take what he wanted close, while professional movers will pack up the rest—like Johnny’s big case that houses all of his shoes, and his TV, and his bed frame. 

Johnny just grabs clothes for now. He stuffs toiletries and other random crap into the small duffel he’d brought, and then… 

Then he slips into Sue and Reed’s room. He takes a deep breath because they are still here, clinging to the sheets, lingering in the air. Johnny closes his eyes and tries to conjure it up: the mental image of when he’d last seen them both in here. 

Sue sitting on the edge of the bed trying to work on a pair of black heels for a charity event she was attending. Reed behind her, struggling with his cufflinks and ranting about something. She’d laughed at him and then rolled her eyes at Johnny like, _Can you believe this guy?_

And Johnny had said, _You married him._

He opens his eyes. 

No Sue. No Reed. Just a perfectly made bed; picture frames scattered around which he collects and puts in his box; books he traces the spines of before grabbing—not the first editions, which were undoubtedly Reed’s most prized possessions—but the ones that Reed had read to him when he was sick as a kid. 

He also snags the photo albums from under the bed, and a couple of Reed’s ratty old shirts for some reason. The whole experience sort of feels like he’s in a trance. 

From Val’s room, he grabs her secret teddy from where it’s stashed behind her pillow. From Frankie’s, he takes the comics sitting face-up on his bed. 

Peter and Harley are waiting for him at the end of the hall. Johnny takes a last look at it all before going over to them. 

“I’ll carry that for you,” Peter says of the box, though Johnny knows he’d mean the grief too, if he could. 

So Johnny passes it over. Peter is not at all bothered by the weight. 

“Burgers?” Harley suggests. 

* * *

Turns out they had ulterior motives. 

Waiting for them at the grimy burger joint in downtown Manhattan are MJ, Ned, and Wanda. 

Johnny knows them better than he knows Harley, at this point; they’ve been hanging out like, at _least_ four times a week for almost a month. They text every day, study in cafes, go see movies when they can make time for them. He and Wanda have even started recommending highlighters and bronzers to each other. 

Ned shoots out of his seat when he sees them and doesn’t hesitate before wrapping Johnny up in a hug. “Dude,” he says, “I am so, so sorry.”

And there’s something about Ned Leeds that’s like, so comforting. It doesn’t feel awkward at all to hold him back, and for the first time Johnny finds it easy to speak. “Me too,” he says. 

Ned leans back. “Peter told us you didn’t feel up to hanging out, which is _totally_ understandable and everything, but you _are_ about to leave for who knows how long so we just—we thought something lowkey would be okay? Just to say goodbye?”

And Johnny nods, because it’s not like he could ever refuse any of them. They are his jolly good time pals, his merry band of morons. Besides, they’re not here to say goodbye to _just_ him: Harley is leaving, too. 

The six of them smush together in a too-small booth by the window and share a few buckets of fries. MJ’s got her thigh hooked over Peter’s to “Make more room for them all”, and it actually doesn’t hurt to see them like that for once. 

Johnny finds his gaze drifting to Harley. 

A week ago he’d made a list of reasons why it was Simply Impossible that they could ever be. 

  1. He is too tall. Freakishly so. They could never even kiss. Johnny would need a step stool. It would be like making out with Bigfoot. No cryptids allowed. 
  2. He lives a thousand miles away. 



Two reasons, one of which he has to cross off now. 

But he adds a few more in its place. 

  1. Sue
  2. Reed 
  3. Val
  4. Frankie 



They’re dead, which means it’s Johnny’s duty to be miserable. He’s leaving most of his friends behind to go stay in an unfamiliar place, because he doesn’t deserve anything else. He shouldn’t even be _alive._

Harley’s eyes catch his. 

He winks, but both eyes close because he’s inept and a complete doofus. 

Jesus. This isn’t gonna be easy. 

* * *

Johnny’s favorite Disney movie has always been Cinderella. 

Something about having a magical keeper dress Johnny tip-to-toe in finery and give him sparkling, blatant opportunity has always spoken to him. 

He kind of used to see Reed as his fairy godmother. 

He gave him attention yes, but more than that, he gave him a home: a life full of love and admiration and camaraderie. 

Goodbye, Aunt Marygay. Hello, castle scraping the clouds. 

Outside his windows, the city stretched for miles below him. It couldn’t feel more different than Long Island. Between the vaulted silver ceilings and the glass fixtures, he was every bit the stately prince he’d always yearned to be. 

Living became terribly easy. He no longer had to cook, or vacuum up all the dust under the beds, or scrub the machine grease stains out of his best pair of jeans. He no longer had to fend for himself to fill Sue’s absence. He had plenty of room, plenty of toys and clothes and friends. 

He and Sue were safe and together, and that’s all that mattered to Johnny. 

He got comfortable. 

And then he caught on fire. 

Coming to Tennessee feels like the opposite of that. 

His best clothes are stripped and traded for flannels and corduroys and thick wool sweaters, all in shades of unassuming brown. Instead of slick loafers and skate sneakers, he’s got his feet stuffed into a pair of boots. 

_Boots._

And, rather than feeling hot and brilliant and bright, he’s completely doused. 

Literally. 

From the moment they’re off the plane, bleary-eyed, shoulders hunched from the weight of their bags, the sky is split wide open. It’s gray farther than Johnny can see, and the sound of rain is like something out of a bad 80’s song; too much maraca. 

Johnny follows the bouncing pompom stitched to the end of Harley’s hat. Harley walks through the gates like he knows them well, the straw of a Yoo-hoo chocolate milk halfway-squished between his teeth. Johnny has to hurry to keep up. It’s like, painful. 

Mrs. Keener and Harley’s younger sister Poppy are waiting for them. Even never having met them—never having so much as seen pictures of them—Johnny knows them immediately. 

They’re like Harley almost exactly, all of them with the same ashy hair color and implacably-colored eyes; the same dimples when they smile, the same twist to their front tooth. They all look like they could be kin to the fey. 

Harley hugs them both at once and they all laugh. Poppy is talking a mile a minute about something Johnny doesn’t even pretend to hear. 

When Mrs. Keener pulls away from her children, she holds a hand out for Johnny. 

“C’mere, honey,” she says, with a voice so warm and enchanting Johnny thinks he really might be falling into a faerie trap. But it’s so _good,_ truly good, that he risks it. 

He approaches her, one hand out to shake her own, but she reaches past it and grabs his wrist to tug him into a tight hug. It’s all elbows and ribs and proud spines. Harley rests his chin on her shoulder. She squeezes his torso. 

It is the warmest kind of _hello._

There’s no pity on her face when she pulls away. “The circumstances are garbage, but we’re damn glad to have you with us,” she says firmly, and pats Johnny’s cheek. 

“Um,” he croaks. Then, “Thank you. Thanks so much. I uh, don’t know what I’d do if you hadn’t offered.”

“It’s not trouble at all, honest.” She’s soft-spoken. Kindness bleeds out of her. Johnny sees where Harley gets it from. 

A smaller hand grabs at his wrist. 

He looks at Poppy, with her cat-eye glasses that contrast her brother’s round ones, and he digs deep inside himself to summon a smile for her. 

It’s weak, but she grins in response like it’s the Memorial Day sale at Macy’s and her name is Linda. 

“This is Poppy June,” says Harley. 

“Just Poppy,” she corrects, squeezing Johnny’s hand. She doesn’t even shake it; just holds on tight. “I’ve got some crystals for you back home. Harley said I wasn’t allowed to bring them to the airport which, y’see, I think is _stupid_ on account of the fact that they’d probably cleanse your spirit as you enter a new phase of your life, but whatever. I guess we can wait on ’em. _Briefly._ ”

Johnny blinks as Harley pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Don’t accost the poor thing. He just flew Economy for the first time in his whole life and it traumatized him.”

Johnny considers asserting that truth but changes his mind at the last second. He’s keeping track of his energy expenditures given how utterly draining everything feels. This isn’t a worthwhile purchase. 

“I’m just _saying_ that the crystals might’ve kept the rain away. Then he could’ve seen Rose Hill all pretty and green. The whole town is gonna be a swamp by the time we get there.”

Great. Because the three hour flight wasn’t enough. Now they’ve got another hour and a half in the car. God, Johnny hopes their music taste is good. He needs something to fill up the empty spaces in his head, all those dark corners where the sadness is growing like moss. 

“The _crystals_ change the _weather._ Right, Pop. That makes a load of sense. Gee whiz, if they’re strong enough to control the weather then why haven’t they fixed up the hole in the roof of the barn, or uncovered that copy of _Wuthering Heights_ I lost?”

“Because you don’t _respect their power—”_

“Alright,” says Mrs. Keener. 

The two shut up. 

It’s quite an amazing superpower. Fuck flames, Johnny wants to be able to stop arguments. 

“Let’s head out. The boys look just about dead on their feet,” says Mrs. Keener. “I’ve got supper ready to pop in the oven. You like pot pies, Johnny, honey?”

Johnny feels a vague memory stir in his chest. It’s yellow like sunlight through windows is yellow, and brown like tabletops digging into his elbows. 

“Yes ma’am, I’ll eat just about anything,” he tells her. 

She stares at him for a second. _“Ma’am._ That’s new. Yeah, I hate that.” She’s grinning and it’s a nice one. She’s hardly much older than Sue. “How about you just call me Mama?”

Johnny blinks. He hasn’t had anyone to call anything like that in so long that it doesn’t really count anymore. 

“Okay,” he says, throat dry. 

She nods in satisfaction, rounds up her children, and marches them out of the airport, leaving behind the faint sensations of hitting a funny bone and blistering sunshine. 

* * *

The ride is long, even with Ruby Keener rapping her nails on the wooden steering wheel of her ancient station wagon and Harley humming along to The Stupid Beatles in the backseat. 

Johnny spends most of it refreshing his Twitter to see exactly no new tweets and playing round after round of GamePigeon darts with Tony Stark who, since getting Johnny’s number, has not left him alone for even a moment. 

Rain hammers onto the windshield. The wipers jerk back and forth. Ruby drives slow. 

When the car pulls into the garage, Johnny feels like he’s been presented with a strange kind of miracle. Something about the close quarters, the reflections of four heads in the rear view mirror, is all too familiar. It’s choking. 

Johnny—energy siphoned, weak and clumsy—fumbles with his suitcase as he works it from the trunk. Harley’s hands are suddenly there helping him pull. It bounces on its wheels when it hits the floor. 

“Thanks,” Johnny says, voice cracking from disuse. 

“Of course,” Harley shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Hey, I’ll give you a better tour later, alright? It doesn’t look like much from here, but Tony souped this place up for me pretty good a few years ago.”

“Okay,” Johnny nods. He’s so fucking tired. 

Harley catches on. He squeezes Johnny’s elbow through the thick layers of sweatshirt and coat before starting into the house. 

Johnny follows. 

He’s instructed on where to put his shoes, where to hang his jacket and scarf. Their voices bounce and echo off these walls like they belong here, like they’re built-in features. 

Johnny watches as Harley runs his fingers over the moulding on the walls with something like reverence in his touch. Johnny has never felt so strongly about a room, himself. 

Harley leads him deeper inside, his dandelion head bouncing as he goes. 

“Here’s the kitchen. It’s not like, Chopped quality, but it’s fine. Feel free to help yourself to whatever food you want, whenever. Just don’t double-dip if you’ve got herpes or whatever. Not that I think you have herpes, but you can never be too sure. Anyway!” 

Harley claps before leading into the next room. It gives off the general air of not having been updated since the 70’s, all brown and yellow and floral with an enormous corduroy couch, and a fireplace so deep that Johnny could stand in there and warm the house himself. 

“Here’s the living room. We’ve got extra blankets under that coffee table that I made.” He pauses. “I’ll say that a second time since I didn’t see an immediate reaction on your face: I made the coffee table.”

“Wow,” Johnny offers up. It seems like a good table, not that Johnny knows anything at all about them. 

“Correct. Wow.” Harley keeps leading. The dining table, the mudroom, the pantry; his mother’s office, which is full with pages upon pages of movie scripts. 

“She was in a real big picture once,” Harley says almost conspiratorially, leaning in. “She wasn’t the lead or the love interest or anything, but she had a whole bunch of lines and her name was on the end card. Right after it first aired, a bunch of producers started trying to sign her onto new projects, but she was already pregnant.” Harley shakes his head a little ruefully. “Poppy and I finally convinced her to keep trying to—y’know, follow her dream.”

“That’s amazing,” Johnny says. “As someone who knows a lot of actors, she doesn’t really seem like the acting type.”

Harley clicks his tongue. “She’s too nice.”

“Plus she’s actually genuinely pretty.”

Harley snorts and looks over his shoulder at Johnny. “Damn right she is.”

They drag their suitcases up to the second floor. Harley points out the bathroom, and Poppy’s room, and then his own. It’s covered in posters and diagrams and there’s all kinds of mechanical parts scattered across the desk. 

“I can show you later, but I figure you probably wanna get some rest, y’know?”

“Yeah.” Rest would be nice. Divine, even. 

Harley turns and looks at him for a long moment, eyes bright and lips turned down. Johnny doesn’t know what to do to make him stop. He settles for jerking a single shoulder. 

It must be right because Harley turns away. He grabs at a string hanging from the ceiling and pulls. A ladder comes tumbling down, rickety and old by the looks of it. 

“Am I supposed to carry my suitcase up there?” Johnny blurts. 

Harley snorts. “Nah. We’ll just bring your shit up there little by little.”

Johnny has never felt smaller. He says, “Okay.” 

Harley pauses with his hands on the steps to shoot him another concerned look. Johnny pointedly doesn’t meet his eyes this time. He’s the last person Johnny wants pity from. 

Harley sighs loudly and starts up the ladder. 

Johnny follows. When his head pokes up into the attic he freezes in place, meerkat styles, watching Harley get to his feet. 

The floor is wooden and shiny. The top of the bed stands beneath the point of the A-frame. A window lets in soft grey light above where Johnny’s head will go. There’s a small, plush rug in blue, and the ceiling is studded with strands of fairy lights stapled into the wood. 

It’s a bit chilly, but temperature doesn’t tend to bother Johnny all that much, seeing as he can control it. The warmth in the details of the decor, the careful set-up for him, is undeniable. 

Like everything else in this house, it oozes love. 

“Oh,” he says. “Gosh. This is—wow.”

“Nice digs, right?” 

Johnny pulls himself the rest of the way into the room. When he stands, his curls brush the ceiling. It’s small, but not in a suffocating way. Just cozy. Just _Johnny,_ and the lights, and the blankets. 

And Harley. 

Johnny looks at him, feeling all kinds of complex. 

Harley stares right back before clearing his throat and looking away. “I’ll let you get some shut eye.” 

Johnny has an absurd inspiration to say _Don’t go._

“Okay,” is what he says instead. 

“You know where to find me.” Harley cracks a pair of lackluster finger guns before descending the ladder. 

Johnny feels his absence like a cold front closing in. 

He extends his arms a little and then lets them fall. Brushes a socked foot over the hardwood until his toes nudge the edge of the rug out of place. 

He walks forward and crawls on top of the bed. _His_ bed. He brings his knees to his chest, presses his knuckles against his mouth, and shakes with the pattered tattoo of rain above him. 

* * *

The next inhabitant of Rose Hill Johnny meets is a ginger cat named Barnabus. 

It’s a fucking bastard. 

Though it wanders the house as it pleases, it is decidedly Poppy’s cat. It hisses at everyone who isn’t her. It is also completely incapable of meowing like a normal cat. Instead, it shrieks at varying decibels and shrill pitches; a hallelujah chorus of Halloween sounds. 

Johnny thinks the cat is excellent. No one can know he feels this way. 

Johnny is also allergic to the cat. He doesn’t want them to find out and keep it away from him, so he tries to keep the eye-rubbing to a minimum. 

He meets the cat in Poppy’s room as she hands him tiny, rough-edged crystals like they’re tokens to spend at Chuck E. Cheese. Barnabus loops possessively around a leg on Poppy’s desk as if it’s chasing its own tail, which is something Johnny thought only dogs did. 

“And this is quartz, which can ease anxiety and stress. It also looks real nice with your complexion.” She drops it onto his palm. It clicks against the others. _“This_ is jade. It’s a lot lighter green than most people might think jade would be. It will definitely sing the heck out of _Give It Up_ given the opportunity, so do with that information what you will.”

“What else does it do?” 

She shoves her glasses up her nose with her knuckle. “Relieves anxiety.”

Johnny squints at her. “Is that what all of these do? Do you think I’m _made_ of anxiety?”

“Yes,” she says. “Your vibes are all wrong, Johnny. As soon as I saw you, I knew. You’re completely discombobulated.”

Johnny almost snorts. “I guess you could say that.”

Poppy closes his fingers over the rocks. “Take ’em. They recharge by the full moon, if they ever start feeling sort of weird or unlucky to you.” 

“Thank you,” he says softly. 

Poppy grins at him and grabs the cat seemingly out of thin air. She pets him gently, pressing her nose into his brick of a head. 

Barnabus vibrates like a Dustbuster with a half of a loaf of bread lodged inside it, undeniably pleased. 

* * *

Johnny eats dinner. He sends Peter a picture of the pot pie. Peter seems like the type that would enjoy frequent updates, especially of the food variety. 

Ruby is a good cook. Johnny thinks he would enjoy the chicken and vegetables more if his mouth didn't feel painfully dry and sticky. 

The Keeners don’t talk particularly much, but only because every word they _do_ say seems to be loaded potato-skin style—all cheddar and bacon. Four words are a conversation, when combined with a pointed look or a gesture towards the careen of peas. 

After, Harley brings his plate into the kitchen to wash. The house is generally loftily empty, but they own a ridiculous number of dish towels, scrapers, and scrubbers. The metal rim of the sink is lined with jewel-toned bottles of soap. 

He takes the orange one. Sue used to use an orange dish soap. He wants his hands to smell like hers one more time. 

He’s got his plate under the water and the soap on the scrub brush when he’s stopped. 

Harley slips the plate out from between Johnny's hands. “I’ll do it. You just go sit down.”

Johnny feels his stomach clench. “You don’t have to baby me,” he snipes. 

Harley frowns right back at him. “I’m not babying you. You’re a guest in my house. I’ll clean your damn plate.”

“Well I can do it myself, thank you very much. I’ve done it before. I was great at it. It’s not a particularly hard task.”

“Sweet Jesus, will you let me clean the dish? As a favor to me. It’s a fucking dish, man.”

“A dish that I’m fully capable of cleaning.”

“And I’m not saying you _can’t,”_ Harley snaps, rolling his eyes, “just that you don’t _gotta.”_

“Mother of fuck. Okay, fine, wash my dish.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Get bent.”

Johnny retreats to the sound of Harley’s very unmusical snort of laughter. 

He considers going to sit in the living room. Poppy and Ruby are in there. 

But there’s something on the TV he doesn’t recognize, and Poppy has a book in her hands, and they both look calm, like they belong exactly where they are. 

Johnny goes upstairs. He yanks on the rope to get into the attic, grabs a towel from his room and some clothes to wear, and then goes to shower. 

He sits under the spray and lets the water grow hot. He still doesn’t feel it. He wonders, will he _ever_ feel it? Will he ever feel _anything_ but numb? 

His skin is tight and red after. 

Johnny brushes his teeth slowly, limbs all heavy and grip poor. He rubs globs of curl cream through his hair. Does his skin routine and decides that yes, Wanda was right, the _Glossier_ milky jelly cleanser does leave a filmy feeling on his face. He’ll have to text her his review. 

Johnny goes right back up to the attic, creeping now because it’s so late, and peels the sheets back on his bed. 

He climbs inside. Pulls the blankets up to his chin and lets his tenuous control ebb until he’s empty, aching; swelling tides and foam skimming off the waves and the crack of the jetty during a hurricane. 

* * *

“I’m begging you not to humiliate me,” Johnny whispers into Harley’s ear as they sit on the school bus, hip-to-hip. Johnny’s stomach is rolling. He’s only allowed himself to have the window seat because he’s fairly certain he’s going to puke at some point during this bus ride. His elbow presses against the glass as he’s squished further in. 

“Me humiliate _you?_ Buddy, every minute with you is a new humiliation for _me_ to endure. I’m a goddamn martyr.” Harley pulls his turtleneck away from his skin, letting air under it because it’s so fucking stuffy on this bus. It’s the hottest bus Johnny has ever been on. There’s no air flow at all. 

It’s also the emptiest one Johnny has ever been on. 

There can’t be more than twenty people on it, from kids who look barely out of toddling age to angsty teens tucked into hoods. 

Poppy is sitting in a three-seater across the aisle, sharing headphones with one girl and digging through the backpack of a boy with a shaved head. 

Johnny had been ready for people to stare at _him._

They don’t. They look at Poppy, with her mane of curls and lavender nails and platform Doc Martens. 

Harley had warned Johnny before they got onto the bus: “Poppy is kinda fuckin’ popular. Like, I’m the town reject because somehow before she was even a thought in Mama’s head she horded all the goddamn cool people genes, which is pretty rude if you ask me.”

But now he believes it. 

Johnny slumps in his seat. Harley knocks their knees together, so Johnny knocks back. 

Harley offers him an earbud. 

Johnny takes it and then _immediately_ removes it, staring at Harley in abject horror. “You do _not_ listen to fucking _screamo.”_

Harley laughs aloud, head back and a little manic. 

“No, you can’t. You _can’t._ You wear _beige._ You can’t wear _beige_ and listen to _screamo.”_

Harley clicks his tongue. He does that a lot. “What can I say? I contain goddamn multitudes.”

“It’s strange indeed if a sentence falls from the lips of Harley Keener that doesn’t include _goddamn,”_ Johnny mumbles, knuckling his eyes. He didn’t sleep all that much the night before and he’s feeling it. He wishes he’d been able to bring his metal eye roller out here. He has so many tubes of potions and serums and oils that he’d thought he wouldn’t need it. 

He’s changed his mind. He wants it now. 

He’s fairly certain Tony would send it to him if he asked. Tony seems like a practical man, the kind that has his priorities in order. Surely he would agree that an eye roller is essential for living. 

When Harley promises he’s put on more sensible music, Johnny takes the earbud back. 

_The Temptations_ he can stomach. 

Besides, he likes watching the way Harley sways his head as he hums along. 

* * *

School is its own torture, specifically chosen by the universe to wring Johnny out like a wet rag. 

Harley can tell this from the moment they walk through the door. 

It’s like the little bit of shine Johnny was still clinging to is gone. Harley watches it melt into the air and wants to grasp at it, catch it between his palms and bottle it up for when Johnny’s ready for it again, like Hermione’s bluebell flames in _Harry Potter._

The whole school is one room. It’s just big enough to hold all forty students. 

There were some walls thrown up a while back to divide it, but they all know it used to be a church; it’s evident from the tops of the high ceilings to the spots on the floor where they pried up the pews. Some of the classrooms still have stained glass windows. 

Johnny gives it a sweeping look and then returns his attention to Harley. “You’re pulling my leg, right? This is all a complex practical joke meant to make me think we’re in a second world country?”

Harley snorts. “You wish, Hot Stuff.” 

He leads Johnny to the makeshift front office where they grab his schedule and school handbook. 

“Biology first. Definitely not my favorite,” Harley says, reading over Johnny’s shoulder. 

Johnny follows along silently, rolling his lip between his teeth. After a moment he asks, “Well?”

Harley starts a little. Johnny’s fingers are weirdly distracting. “‘Well’ what?”

“Do we have any classes together?”

“Oh,” Harley says. “Yeah. Dummy. The whole grade is together, all six of us.”

“Six,” Johnny repeats. 

“Yessir.”

“Jesus fuck. Okay. Alright.” He folds his schedule neatly and shoves it into his back pocket. “Lead the way to Biology.”

Harley leads him to the eleventh grade classroom instead, because yeah right they have a _bio lab._ Excuse him while he fucking hoots with laughter. 

They put their bags down towards the back. There are exactly enough chairs for the half dozen of them. If there were any more desks, they would all be bonking elbows while they took notes. 

Johnny goes right up to the teacher and introduces himself. She’s cool; has them call her _Miss Lacey_ instead of going by her last name, and Harley thinks that’s pretty badass. He hopes Johnny likes her. 

She smiles like the sun when she sees Johnny, which tends to be the typical response to his presence. Harley would be more concerned if she _didn’t._

When Johnny sits down he looks paler somehow, like every interaction, every moment out of catatonia, is sucking more of him away. 

It itches at Harley. Miss Lacey starts giving the lesson and he _does_ try to listen for a good few minutes, gives it his honest best. 

Past that, no promises can be made. His brain is anarchy. 

He doodles his frustrations in the margins of his notebook, angry lines smudging against his skin all silver: a bit of jagged lightning coming from puffs of clouds, a very frustrated frog covered in warts, a moon beaming in the corner. 

When Biology ends and everyone stands up to stretch before English, Harley startles. 

Johnny seems just as surprised. There is a page full of sparkly purple gel pen notes in front of him. 

Harley reaches over and prods his elbow. 

The poor kid looks over and Harley flicks his brows up. 

Johnny frowns. 

Harley rolls his eyes. “Are you hanging in there?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to like, say that just because.”

“Isn’t it what you want to hear?”

Harley’s knee jerks in surprise. “ _No._ I want to hear the truth, dumbass.”

Johnny looks down at his notes, lines and lines of meticulous, even script. Then he looks back up at Harley. “I’m trying,” he whispers. 

Harley nudges their shoes together. He stares at him a little bit longer—long enough for Johnny’s cheeks to go pink—then goes back to his doodles. 

The rest of the day is much of the same. 

* * *

The rest of the _days_ are much of the same. 

* * *

It’s been a week of watching Johnny get up, sit at the breakfast table without so much as prodding his cereal, astral project the whole bus ride with Harley’s earbuds shared between them, stare blankly in class and then jerk back to attention at the end only to find he’s written a full page of notes (which is a far sight more than most kids even bother with). He is blank at lunch, blank on the bus ride home, and when it’s all over he crawls up into his attic bedroom like a very sad mole rat. 

Harley’s so goddamn tired of it. 

He knocks the end of the Swiffer against the ceiling. “Johnny! Hey, Johnny, are you decent? I’m coming up, so put your dick away.”

Johnny doesn’t even grace Harley with a response, so Harley pulls down the stairs and clambers up. 

Johnny is on the right side in bed, facing away from the staircase. If Harley didn’t know better, he’d say Johnny was asleep. But even without his glasses, he can squint good enough to see Johnny’s back shaking. 

“Hey,” Harley whispers, feeling frozen. “Hey, are you okay?”

Johnny doesn’t answer. 

Harley unsticks himself from the floor and hurries to Johnny’s bedside, perching on the edge of the mattress. 

Johnny’s biting down hard on his lip, his breath hitching. His cheeks are wet, eyes red-rimmed and lashes shining. 

In his hand he clings to one of Poppy’s dumbass crystals. 

“Oh, Johnny.”

Johnny pulls the sheets over his head and rolls. 

Harley sighs. He drops a hand where he figures Johnny’s side is and rubs at it, feeling the ridges of his overlarge sweatshirt bunching under the blankets. 

“You should come out to the barn with me,” Harley suggests softly. “I’ll introduce you to the sheepies.”

Johnny peeks his eyes out from under the sheets. 

Harley has an absurd urge to wipe the tears away. 

“You have sheep?” Johnny asks, voice scratchy. 

“Yeah, loads of ’em. We’ve got a big ugly cow, too.” 

Johnny sniffles with a miserable snurgling sound. “Oh.” 

“I bet you’d like ’em. Have you ever seen a cow before? Do you even know how milk comes into the world?”

“I’m familiar with the concept.”

Harley snorts. He keeps rubbing at Johnny’s side because he just can’t seem to stop. “That’s what you think. Just wait until you see ol’ Lucy in action.”

“Lucy?”

“That’s the bitch. Cow. You’ll see. She’s earned her name. If she ain’t got some _splainin’_ to do, pigs are flying.”

Johnny asks, “Do you have those too?”

Harley hums and then realizes what Johnny had asked. “Pigs? God, no. Have mercy.”

“Oh. Good. Pigs scare me.”

“Pigs _scare_ you?” A beat. “I take that back, that’s a valid fear. Pigs are godless beasts.” 

“Big.”

“Yeah, they’re enormous. A thousand pounds is hard to picture, and then you see a pig that gigantor and start praying for a painless death.” 

Johnny hums. He wipes his nose on his sleeve under the sheets. 

“Fucking nasty,” Harley says far too fondly, opening the nightstand drawer and pulling out a tissue box. He holds it towards Johnny. 

Johnny takes one and blows loudly. 

“That’s it. Let it out. What’s that thing Shrek said? Better out than in?” 

“I thought Hagrid said that.”

“They both did, I think, which is probably illegal or something. J.K. Rowling could sue for stolen property.”

“That TERF doesn’t deserve a dime more than she’s got,” Johnny snaps, and bitterly tosses his dirty tissue onto the nightstand. 

“Come on, up and at ’em, Sparky.”

Harley leads the way downstairs, waits until Johnny bundles himself in his jacket and a hat, and then yanks him outside into the cold. 

The ground is still pure muck from the rain the day earlier. It smells like humidity and cow pie, though the air is sharp and cold. 

The barn is out back. It’s not all that big, but it’s a place so comforting and familiar to Harley that it feels like a second home—all hay and warm animal smells, rakes and troughs and leather. 

Harley shuts the doors behind them once they’re inside. 

Johnny stares in the soft light peaking through the cracks in the walls. He looks ghostly, pallid. 

“Wow,” he says. 

The sheep start bleating their damn butts off, and Lucy lets out a low moan. 

“Hey guys,” greets Harley, smiling. He hurries towards them, hopping smoothly over the fence, making priority of the youngest lambs—the ones that had been born this past spring. He rubs at their coats, presses kisses onto their heads, and gives Sylvester a look so she knows not to go fucking around and shitting all over the place today. “We’ve got a guest, so we’ve all gotta be on our best behavior, yeah? Oh, yes. Hi Chesterfield. Charley—Charley, stop chewing on my leg. Okay. Everyone at attention. Come on, you anthropomorphic cotton balls. How long does it _take_ you little assholes to get into army regulation?”

Once they’ve calmed, Harley glances over his shoulder. 

Johnny is watching them all with a ragged look. 

Harley wants to make it go away so bad his chest aches. “Get over here,” he croaks. “Come on, they want to say hi.”

Johnny stares for a moment and then comes over, every one of his footsteps ghostly; half-formed. He looks like he’s barely clinging to his own skeleton. 

The sheep start yelling again and pressing towards the fence, poking their little heads through the gaps. Harley holds a hand up for Johnny to wait on the other side. 

“Pull yourselves together, ladies,” Harley tsks. “I know he’s a stud of a superhero and all, but show the man some respect. Remember when we discussed boundaries?” 

Harley can practically _hear_ Johnny blushing. 

Mission accomplished: Johnny’s freckled nose wrinkles when he blushes and it’s unfairly adorable. Disgusting. Terrible. Zero out of ten, Harley is definitely not peeking at him to watch it happen. 

He holds a hand out to help Johnny over the fence. 

Johnny scowls at him, all _I don’t need your help,_ but he takes it anyway. Harley’s spine tingles at the contact like all of his nerve endings are frying. 

The sheep crowd toward Johnny. They’re no taller than his knees, but rather than taking a nervous step back like Harley imagined, he leans forward and starts to pet them, cooing softly. 

“Hi, oh, hi guys,” he whispers. “Yes, hi. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Johnny. _Oof._ ”

He drops onto his ass and the sheep start screaming right in his face, excited as shit, the younger ones jumping for more attention. One of the older, rounder ones—it’s either September or October, Harley can’t tell—climbs right onto Johnny’s lap. 

Johnny buries his fingers in her curls and rests his face against her back. 

They’re _cuddling._

Harley hates the man. Get him _out._ His chest is going all fucking tight and stupid, he’s _stupid,_ so he clears his throat and turns around. “I’m gonna, um—I’m gonna go get some fresh hay from up in the loft.”

“Mkay,” Johnny mumbles, eyes slipping closed as he hugs the sheep, who head-butts his stomach gently. 

Harley watches for a moment longer before he goes. Among the stupid, stinking hay bales, he feels weirdly calm. The scent is familiar and stronger up here, and it’s warmer too. He sticks his hands into one of the bales to yank it free from the stack, but stops. 

He peers down at Johnny, who is rubbing his nose on his sleeve and sneezing. His other arm is still tight around the white ball of fluff in his lap. 

Harley softens. The bastard is allergic to something. Animal dander, hay, pollen. How fucking despicable of him to come into Harley’s barn and be _allergic,_ and still have the audacity to look so adorable when he snarfs into his damn elbow. He makes snot _cute._ Harley is going to _kick his ass._

Harley lays down flat on his stomach and leans over the edge of the loft. He scoops up a handful of loose hay and drops it. 

It drifts down slowly and lands behind Johnny. 

Harry cusses under his breath, then grabs some more and adjusts his aim. 

“Hey, Jay?” he calls, and he’s never said the nickname before, but he likes the way it falls out of his mouth. 

Johnny looks up just in time for all that hay to land on his face. 

He sputters. 

Harley hoots a laugh and Johnny, with his pink cheeks and the sheep on his lap like a puppy and his hat making his ears stick out, pulls the hay from between his lips and tilts his head back again. 

And, miracle of miracles, his face is stretched into a grin. 

It’s small, but it’s more than Harley’s gotten for his efforts thus far. God, it makes him want to wax poetic. Johnny finally has a bit of color in his cheeks. He looks peachy and delicate, like a well-placed thumb could split him right in two. 

“Asshole,” Johnny says. 

Biblical. Someone note that so Harley can carve it into his tombstone someday. Cause of death: Johnny Storm’s cherubic face screwed up in a grin as he calls Harley _asshole._ Get his birth certificate and some white-out. Lordy. He’s changing his legal name. 

“Oops.” Harley goes pink and buries his face in his folded arms. 

If he takes a minute to breathe before going back down with the clean hay, no one is allowed to say anything. He’ll poke them right in the ass with a pitchfork if they do. 

He walks Johnny around the space after that. 

“There’s the coop for the chickens. We don’t have any right now on account of we have the cow and the sheep and Missus Dougherty down the street didn’t have _anything,_ so we gave ‘em to her. But we should be getting the chicks from our hens when spring comes. The babies are real cute when they run around all stupid and a little blind.”

Johnny’s lip twitches at that. 

“This is the pen Poppy’s horse used to stay in. It died a year or two ago now. She named it Brownie Bite. It was the nicest animal we had. A good, normal animal. The rest of our kids are wily pieces of shit, but this horse… man, there was no better horse out there.”

“Brownie Bite.”

“It was a good fucking name, don’t slander it.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. I’d punch you if you did, no cap.”

Johnny actually smiles. 

Harley dopily thinks, _score!_

He grabs the end of Johnny’s sleeve and keeps pulling him around. There really isn’t much to show someone in a barn. He points out the old saddles, the sheep shears; he formally introduces Johnny to Lucy, who mournfully moos but seems appeased by the little kiss Harley plants between her eyes. 

“That’s some hay,” Harley says, pointing. “And there’s some hay. And there’s an old trough that we keep fertilizer in.”

“What’s that?”

“Cow shit.”

A beat. 

Then Johnny snorts. 

And then he’s _laughing._

Really laughing, right from his belly, all shoulders shaking and crinkles by his eyes and a hand on his chest. The sound is a little thick like he’s still congested from whatever allergy he’s pretending not to have, but it’s still like crystal dangling from a chandelier, tossing rainbows on ballroom floors. The way the sun shines off the face of a creek at dusk, that’s Johnny. 

Harley feels the breath _woosh_ out of his lungs. It’s like watching a portrait in tacky acrylics peel itself off a canvas and step into the real world, shocking and beautiful and painfully sweet. 

Harley gets so busy staring—mooning—that he forgets to laugh. 

The smile melts off Johnny’s face like slush sliding down a windshield. He crowds his shoulders. 

Harley doesn’t mean to when he all but lunges forward. It’s like he’s been tugged, a loop of string tied tight around his chest. “No, don’t—please keep smiling, don’t stop.”

His hand lands on top of the one Johnny’s got on his chest. 

Johnny’s hand is _freezing._

“Christ on a bicycle,” Harley breathes. He grabs Johnny’s other hand up and blows on the pair, rubs them between his own. “You should’ve said you were cold. You should’ve—couldn’t you just warm yourself up? Don’t you regulate your own temperature?”

Johnny’s face loses whatever color it had gained. 

“Okay,” Harley says quickly. “That’s fine. No problem. Stupid question, Harley. Shut up Harley, stop talking about yourself in the third person. You hate that.”

“I don’t—I can’t—make myself do that,” Johnny says stuntedly. 

Harley waits, rubbing his fingers over Johnny’s knuckles. When Johnny doesn’t go on, he spurs him. “You can’t make yourself use your flame? Did it go out?”

“No,” Johnny says, “no.” His voice turns quiet and rough. “I just—can’t get it to feel warm. I can’t.” He gestures with their knit hands toward his own chest. “In here. I can’t make it warm.”

“Oh.”

“I’m too cold,” Johnny says. 

“Okay,” Harley nods. “Okay. Come here.”

He pulls Johnny to him and holds tight. 

Johnny shivers and presses his face into Harley’s shoulder, arms hanging loose at his sides. 

Harley squeezes him tight. “You need to borrow some warmth? That’s fine, I’m good at sharing. Just until you’re feeling up to it again. All good.”

Then he goes quiet, holding onto Johnny tight. Between the insulated hush of hay and the soft sounds of bleating, Johnny’s breaths hitch. Harley doesn’t think it’s from his allergies this time. 

He rubs Johnny’s back, feeling the rungs of his spine through his jacket. Counts them, and then cups the back of his neck. 

He’s got more than enough warmth to go around. And if Johnny needs some? 

God. He’d just about give it all. 


	2. DECEMBER

  
  
Falling, Johnny thinks, is inevitable. 

With every turn around a corner, he’s clumsily tripping Fergie-style down a staircase that feels like it was specifically designed to bruise him. When he peels himself off the floorboards, elbows and knees and spine mottled purple and blue, he takes a brave step forward only to stumble again; headfirst and heavy, a stone tossed from the hand of a God uninterested.

He keeps falling. He’s falling now. He thinks this staircase should’ve had a landing already, something to counter his momentum. 

Down to the shadows in his chest, he’s blooming ugly black. 

It is, after all, inevitable. 

* * *

The Keener house transitions from eerily quiet and creaking to startlingly loud on the first of December. 

Johnny decidedly prefers this to the haunted stairways. 

They’ve got a real boombox stereo system like it’s still the eighties, and the damn thing is near constantly on. Ruby rotates through a handful of Christmas CDs and cassette tapes—including that weird _A Very Special Christmas_ album with Bruce Springsteen on it, which Harley has many feelings about. 

New Jersey? Armpit. Bruce? The boss. Christmas? Fucking _hurts._

Maybe _hurt_ is the wrong word, because it’s not like Johnny is in pain; there’s no stinging in his chest, no scalpel slicing down his sternum, no trowel making mincemeat of his innards. 

It’s not a pain so much as the _absence_ of it that hurts. 

But Harley—God, Harley—keeps grabbing Johnny by the elbow, by the hands, by the hood of his sweatshirt, and yanking him around. _Come on, Johnny, we’re driving out to get a tree and you’re coming. Hey, come sit in the barn while I milk Lucy, the sheep miss you. Do you wanna go to the diner in town? Their milkshakes are so good they give me a stiffy._

And Johnny appreciates it—appreciates Harley trying so damn hard to distract him. 

But the distractions don’t change the fact that Johnny wants to take a shovel and dig himself a hole in the backyard, jump inside and rot among the roots and moss. 

Johnny would like to think he’d make a nice flower. A bluebell maybe, or some baby’s breath. 

The more he thinks about it, Johnny wants to be a whole garden someday: a sky-scraping orchard hunched with the weight of its own fruit. He’s got to give himself time to propagate, time to soak up the sun and these relentless Rose Hill rains. He wants to have an unsnappable spine and a proud-petaled head. 

Harley simply refuses to let that happen. 

If Harley were a part of Johnny’s garden, he’d be Peter Rabbit: coming in and pulling up the plants by the root, chewing on the stalks, and kicking around in the dirt just because.

_Just because_ he’s a nasty little poo poo head, if you ask for Johnny’s opinion.

This morning, Harley grabs Johnny by the hand (yes, the _hand,_ because ever since that moment in the barn—was it a moment? Johnny likes to think so—he’s been all hands everywhere, touching and yanking and _warming_ but _never_ the way Johnny wants him to) and drags him into the kitchen. 

The whole room is bedecked with tinsel, from the cabinets to the handle of the oven. The windows have candles standing in them. 

A thick stack of waffles sits on a serving tray with whipped cream on top and crushed-up candy cane bits in a bowl off to the side. 

Johnny knows immediately where Harley gets this from: his sugar-loving menace of an adopted dad-thingy. 

“What is this, Hansel and Gretel?” he asks. 

Harley pinches him. “Shut the fuck up. It’s tradition is what it is.” 

Johnny grins and says, “Good morning, Poppy June,” and lets her kick him in the shin under the table. Her cheeks are bulging with half-chewed wads of waffle. 

Harley squeezes his shoulder and then grabs a plate for Johnny. Ruby ruffles his hair. He wishes her a good day at work and winces through it because he hasn’t yet worked up the courage to call her _Mama_ like she’d asked. 

Johnny chokes down a bunch of whipped cream, half a waffle, and a mug of hot coffee. It doesn’t do much beyond make his chest go tight and, as Poppy would say, totally throw off his chakras. 

Time is sticky when he’s like this. It gets caught on his fingers and at the corners of his lips. It’s honey that won’t drip from the mouth of the jar, a treasured lip gloss tube clogged up, machine grease caught so deep beneath his nails he needs to scrape it out with the tip of a screwdriver.

Harley leans in front of him to grab his half-empty dish. Johnny startles. 

“I thought we talked about this,” he grumbles. Harley hums innocently. “Me cleaning my own dish? We established that you wouldn’t do it anymore, remember?” 

Harley tuts. “ _I_ thought we agreed it’s okay for me to help you if I _want to—_ which I _do.”_

Johnny stares. “You are one cracked egg, Cowboy.”

Harley’s smirk is a knife’s edge in the dark. He takes the dishes to the sink. 

“‘Oo can clean mah ’ishes any time ’oo like, Harls,” Poppy chokes out. There’s a bit of whipped cream on her chin. She swallows, grabs her glass of almond milk, and downs it in one go. 

“Don’t think I won’t put you in the barn,” Harley warns her. “Your complete lack of manners truly astounds me. You’d think the cow raised you. No, I take that back, the cow is summer goddamn peach compared to you.” 

“Oh? An’ wha’ ’ezzackly am I?”

“Worm,” he decides. “You’re a worm digging through horse shit. A feces worm.”

“Hey!”

Johnny rests his chin on his fist and slips out of focus. 

Poppy brings him back with a well-placed jab of her sparkly-painted toes against his stomach. 

_“Oof.”_ Johnny dramatically hunches over like he’s been shot, which succeeds in yanking a laugh from her. 

But he can’t distract her that easily. Her brows draw together and she leans forward. “You holding on?” she asks, quietly enough that Harley won’t hear over the pounding of sink water onto plates and the tambourine clamor of Bruce’s _Santa Claus Is Coming To Town._

“I’m—” Johnny clears his throat. “I’m trying.”

He’s a terrible fucking liar. 

Poppy frowns. “Are you?” 

Johnny meets her eyes and it’s ridiculous the way she can get him to talk. Maybe she slipped truth serum into his drink. 

Or maybe it’s because she’s got her brother’s eyes. 

But there’s something about her, with her dimpled chin and earnest looks and soft smiles. He says, “I’m trying to try but I don’t think I’m doing so good.” 

She tilts her head. “You know any of us would do anything to make it easier on you, right? That’s why my idiot brother is always dragging you around. The decorating, the diner, the barn—he thinks keeping you busy will help you feel better because that’s what _he_ did when Daddy skipped town.”

Johnny hasn’t thought much about the absence of a father in the Keener household because it doesn’t _feel_ like he’s missing. This is a whole home without him; it’s just the three of them and what they bring to each other, but that’s more than enough. 

Poppy scoots her chair towards Johnny and drops her cheek onto her palm. “Harley is good at _everything._ You name something, he can do it at least a little bit. Painting, drawing, baking, writing—poetry, even. Lots of poems. Sometimes he tacks them to his wall. I read them when he was out in the barn once. They were surprisingly good, for someone who isn’t at all connected with his id or ego. _”_ Poppy smiles ruefully and shakes her head. “He plays guitar _and_ he sings, which I’m sure you’ve heard by now. He picked up piano, plays by ear. He—Johnny, he _knits,_ because he didn’t know what to do with his six year old hands when Daddy suddenly wasn’t around to stick wrenches and screwdrivers into ’em.”

Johnny’s throat is aching. He has the most ridiculous urge to reach for Harley—to touch the smooth skin of his neck, to run his hands over his narrow shoulders and his bony hips. He wants to tell him that he’s enough _without_ all of that. 

But he knows he’d devour everything Harley makes voraciously.

Johnny wants to have as much of him as he can possibly carry. He wants him so bad, so big, so heavy, he can feel it in his blood and marrow. 

“In Harley’s mind,” Poppy carries on, softer, like she can sense the lightning rod that Johnny’s spine has become, “if he can’t fix something, he’ll try to make himself—how do I say this?” She twists one of her curls around her finger and thinks, before meeting Johnny’s eyes again. “I think he just wants, more than anything else, to deserve love.”

“Oh, _God,”_ is what Johnny breathes, because Harley _oozes_ love, always. He whistles as he scrubs the dishes, changing soaps for every plate like mix-and-match bikinis. He makes sure every sheep gets the same amount of food so none of them feel jipped. He steals Johnny’s backpack and carries it kangaroo-style over his stomach just so Johnny doesn’t have to bear its weight. 

To give that much love and expect nothing in return—to feel like he hasn’t _earned_ anything back—wrenches at Johnny’s chest and squeezes his heart in a tight fist. 

“I know,” Poppy agrees. “He’s the best human. Like, in general. But I think you know that already.”

Johnny nods. 

Poppy reaches out and squeezes his hand. “Don’t let him drag you into scooping animal poop just to distract you, but don’t feel like he’s being disrespectful by trying to entertain you instead of letting you grieve alone. He’s stupid about shit like this, but he wants to help.”

Johnny squeezes her hand right back. “He’s not stupid. He’s just… special.”

“Special? Must be talking about me,” Harley cuts across, smirking as he dries his hands on a ratty gingham towel. 

“Yeah, special levels of doofus,” Johnny says, at the same time Poppy snipes, “We absolutely are, but not in a good way.”

Harley rolls his eyes and swats her with the towel. She squeaks and ducks, glowering at him, before giving Johnny one last pat on the hand. 

“I’m going to read in my bay window like an Austen heroine, watching the sun break through the rain clouds in an extremely symbolic and possibly foreshadow-y way,” she says primly. Then she’s off, leaving behind the vague scent of lavender and the continued pang of Johnny’s heart with every beat. 

“That seemed serious,” Harley notes. 

“She’s so wise, what the fuck is up with that? She’s like, eleven. She shouldn’t be wise. She should be trying to swallow Polly Pocket shoes.”

Harley snorts. “She’s fourteen. She’s also... a weird one. Free spirit and all that. Old soul.”

Johnny hums in agreement. He studies Harley: all long lines even in a plain grey hoodie and loose corduroys, curls hanging in his eyes, lithe fingers. Johnny can’t help but watch as Harley dries off each one. Those fingers hold paintbrushes and press down on guitar strings and wield a wrench with the same dexterity they use to grab Johnny by the belt loop or brush his hair from his forehead. 

For some reason that feels enormous. Poetic. Significant. 

“Got something on my face?” Harley asks dryly, cheeks going pink at the attention. 

“Just a bad attitude,” Johnny retorts, stomach swooping. 

“Prick.” 

Johnny offers a wan half-smile. 

Harley shoots him an exaggerated, tooth-bared grin back. 

It’s horrendous. Johnny wants to fill his camera roll with it. 

He’s fast with his phone and gets the picture right before Harley drops the expression, face contorting into a genuine scowl at having been caught. He yanks his hood over his head and pulls the strings to hide his face. 

Johnny looks at the photo. It’s a little blurry because Harley’s trying to duck out like bigfoot, but Johnny feels himself smile at it all the same. 

He snaps another picture of Harley hiding in his hood for good measure and makes a new folder labeled ‘ _Cowbob Boy.’_ He sticks them both inside. 

When he looks back up, Harley’s stuck his head into the fridge and is trying to close the door on himself. Johnny lets out a snarf. 

Harley straightens and hoots. “Oh yeah! Five points to me.”

“Five points?”

Harley opens his hood just enough to show his nose and mouth. “I made up a points system for getting you to laugh. It’s like Jacksonville-style pool, if you ever watched the Good Place. I make up my scores as I go along, but the better the laugh the better my score, so feel free to snort disgustingly and like, wheeze whenever. Witch cackles are also valid. I’m still playing at a beginner level, personally, but I’m hoping to get really damn good.”

He then pulls his hood shut over his face again. 

Johnny grins. There aren’t butterflies bouncing around in his stomach so much as a swarm of cracked up bees. “I’ll give you a hint: the stupider you act, the harder I’ll laugh.”

“So all I have to do is be myself all the time!”

“Yeah,” Johnny says softly. “That’s perfect.”

* * *

Sunday is empty until Harley drags Johnny downstairs by the sweatshirt cords and announces dramatically, “We’re making cookies, bitch!” 

Johnny blinks. He thinks he left his brain upstairs. 

Harley starts pointing at the bowls he’s got set up, pausing beside each one as he explains their purpose: “Stand mixer is for the chocolate chippies: classic, wholesome, delightful. This bowl will be chocolate cookies with little marshmallow pieces inside, because _Christmas._ It’s like hot chocolate, you know? Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, it’ll be cute. This one over here is sugar cookies, and this one is for those little peanut butter ones with the Hersey’s kiss in the middle. If we’ve got extra time we’ll do gingerbread. If not, we’ll do that after school this week. It’s a tight schedule, but I believe in us.” 

“You have high hopes for production.”

“This is a strict kitchen. You follow my rules and we’ll be successful. Do you hear me, Chef Storm?”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Good God, we watch too much of the Great British Baking Show.”

Harley pulls an apron over his head and then grabs another out of a drawer. He shakes it out. It’s pink and frilly and basically fulfills every one of Johnny’s problematic fantasies that include being Harley’s fifties housewife. 

“Gimme,” he says. 

Instead of doing that, Harley steps forward and slips it right over Johnny’s head. He fiddles with it, straightening the neck. His fingertips are warm and rough with calluses where they brush the skin of Johnny’s neck and Johnny _shivers._

Harley’s eyes jump to meet his, brows drawn together, searching and confused. 

His thumb ghosts over Johnny’s pulse point and it’s soothing, and Johnny’s warm for the first time in years, like he’s burning at the stake, swallowed by something hungry that _he_ used to hold. Now it holds _him,_ and it must hate him because this energy is so fucking cursed. 

Johnny’s eyes start to sting. A terrible wave of _something_ swells in his stomach and there’s all this pressure sitting on his chest like an anvil.

He’s been touched by a lot of hands—good ones, evil ones, lawful neutral ones—but this is the first pair that has touched him with something tender, like he’s precious: porcelain and shaved ice and new berries in springtime, tenuous on the tip of the branch. 

Johnny finds it nearly impossible to breathe for a long, frozen moment. 

Then the oven beeps. 

They rip apart. Johnny turns to tie the strings of the apron. His face is bright red, he can feel it, and his hands are trembling so hard that he can barely make a knot. 

He clears his throat. “Should we like, start?”

“Yeah,” Harley croaks from behind him. He sounds _ripped._

Johnny whips around but Harley’s already facing away from him. He presses his hand to his chest and sucks in a deep, cleansing breath, just like he learned in his old yoga classes. He just needs to calm down, to stop Stockholm Syndrome-ing this situation. It’s not about him and Harley.

It’s about Sue, Reed, Franklin and Val. Maybe even about Ben—who, though Harley calls every night, ignores him. It’s like he’s gone with the rest of them except it’s _worse,_ because Johnny knows that’s not true. 

Ben ghosting him is enough to convince Johnny that every bit of the friendship he thought they’d shared was fake. 

There’s a clatter. It startles Johnny out of his reverie.

There’s a mixing bowl in Harley’s hands and a bag of flour inside it. He’s staring at the floor where the two wooden spoons and a whisk lay where he’d dropped them.

“Well, you know what they say,” Johnny starts. 

“What’s that?”

“‘And I oop’.”

Harley gives him the most exasperated, fed-up look of all time. Johnny grins and hunches over to grab the shit he’d dropped. He takes his sweet ass time cleaning them in the sink so he doesn’t have to look at Harley. The sound of fucking Madonna singing _Santa Baby_ fills the room instead. 

Johnny dries them off and turns to see Harley, squinting at a measuring cup that can’t be more than an inch from his own face. The poor asshole is so blind he still can’t read the damn handle. 

For someone who would absolutely mistake a pigeon for an elephant without his glasses on, he really doesn’t wear them much.

But it just gets worse because when Harley squints, his nose wrinkles up and there are all these little creases by his eyes. 

Johnny should lend him some eye cream, now that he thinks about it, but it’s also just… sweet, in a strangely endearing, human kind of way. Johnny wants to trace the lines with his fingernails, kiss the starburst spot they spread from; to run his thumb down the bridge of Harley’s nose and kiss the upturned tip.

Disgusting. He _disgusts_ himself. 

Harley’s tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth. 

Johnny is going _feral!_

“Hey,” Harley says without looking up. “C’mere, I need your help.”

“Naturally,” Johnny says, but internally he’s thinking something along the lines of: _swoon._ “You couldn’t find your way out of a paper bag without me.” 

“Shut. Is that a two or a three?” 

“It’s a three,” Johnny says. “Also: why in the fresh fuck don’t you wear your glasses?”

“Because gross?” Harley keeps dumping ingredients into the bowl, probably incorrectly, but whatever. Johnny would eat that fucking dry ass turkey in _Christmas Vacation_ if Harley had made it, and that’s on periodt. 

Still he says, _“Gross?_ What do you mean, ‘gross’?” 

“They make me look like a nerd—like an accountant from the fifties. I look like Clark Kent and Harry Potter had a baby.”

“A cute baby.”

“Pardon?”

“That’s baking powder, not baking soda,” Johnny says by way of an answer. 

“Whoops. Also I lied, this time it’s actually because I lost them.”

“You lost—okay, never mind, I’m not even gonna bother asking how. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if you asked Lucy to hold them and forgot she doesn’t have fucking _thumbs._ You should get one of those spectacle chain thingies.”

Harley pauses in the middle of whisking. “Like a librarian?”

“No, like a fancy man.”

“A _fancy man.”_ He snorts. “No way. I’ll look like I’m twelve and playing rec basketball again. Fucking Rec Specs. I may be a fool, but I do not ascribe to _that_ brand of tomfoolery.”

Johnny leans over Harley to grab the melted butter. 

“You played basketball?” 

“ _No.”_

“Brilliant. I’ll need all of the pictures, every single one of them. Don’t be shy. Send them to me or I’ll find them with my dark magic.”

Harley raises an eyebrow and faces Johnny. “You trying to start something you can’t finish, shortstack?”

“Potato boy.”

“Tabasco sauce.”

“Flannel addict.”

“Taco Bell fart.”

Johnny pauses because that one stings. 

“Okay, I took it too far,” Harley admits. “Will you ever forgive me, vile and wretched as I am?” 

Johnny squints at him. Harley clasps his hands and flashes him puppy dog eyes, which makes the decision pretty easy.

“Someday, mayhaps,” Johnny says primly. He spins back towards the cookie dough. “Put this—use the stand mixer, come on.”

“Don’t tell me what to do in my own kitchen, heathen.”

“Was that a vague joke about me being burned at the stake? Like, a metaphor for when I catch on fire? Because if so: rude.”

“Are you implying that I think ahead enough before I speak to make a joke that clever and nuanced? Because that’s—the opposite of rude, actually, what a great compliment.”

“I live to forgive.”

“Yeah, you’re a fucking peach. Where are the chocolate chips?”

Johnny scans the counter, grabs the bag, and chucks it at Harley’s head. It hits him right in the ear. 

“Now _that_ was rude.”

“I thought I was a peach.” Johnny flicks the stand mixer on, and between that and The Coventry Carol, it’s too damn loud to hear whatever the fuck Harley says back. 

Instead they communicate exclusively through the exchange of increasingly terrible facial expressions. 

It feels strangely normal, as childish as it seems on paper. Johnny can do a little immaturity. He’s great at it, in fact. 

The serenity is all _ruined_ when Harley comes up behind Johnny, pressing against his back and peeking over his shoulder to look at the dough.

“Airy,” Harley comments. “Paul Hollywood would approve. 

“You think?” Johnny asks, doing his best to pretend he isn’t about to spontaneously combust and/or collapse. 

Harley dips a finger into the dough and Johnny expects Harley to eat it just like that, because this boy is a disgusting creature of sin. Regardless, Johnny would probably be turned on by it and that makes him just as bad. 

What he _doesn’t_ expect is for Harley to swipe it down Johnny’s recently exfoliated nose. 

“Oh, mother of _Christ!”_ Johnny snaps, turning on instinct. 

That's worse. That’s so, _so_ much worse. Now he’s pressed stomach-to-stomach against this fucking goblin and the counter is digging into his back and _hnnnnggggg._

He nearly swallows his tonsils. It’s not his proudest moment.

Harley’s got his hands on the counter on either side of Johnny’s hips to hold himself upright, and one of Johnny’s knees is stuck between Harley’s legs, and Harley is _really fucking pretty_ when he laughs, even if he sounds stupid doing it.

When Harley catches his breath, he pats Johnny on the cheek twice and says, choked, “God. Your face.”

“Yeah, my _face,”_ Johnny agrees. “This is not healthy for my skin _at all._ And in my T-zone of all locations? This is utter sabotage, my pores are all clogged now.”

Harley seems to find that even funnier. “I’m very outraged and offended,” Johnny tells him. “I think this might be the meanest thing you’ve ever done to me and yet you’re standing here lau— _u_ _mph!_ ”

More dough right in the face hole. 

Johnny is going to _press charges._

Harley keeps his palm over Johnny’s lips until he’s sure Johnny’s shut up. Before he lets go, his thumb traces the curve of Johnny’s bottom lip—just slightly, almost like it could have been an accident. 

Johnny’s heart does the Cotton Eyed Joe anyhow. He glowers up at Harley. “Asshole.” 

“You’re not you when you’re hungry,” Harley quips, leaning in close enough that their noses nearly brush before finally—fuck—pulling away.

His mind is reeling and he’s Feeling Things, but Harley just asks, “You ready to start the marshmallow batter?”

Johnny thinks _No!_ He thinks _What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck!_ He thinks _Hnnngnhgh._

He says, “Y-yeah, sure.”

They make the goddamn cookies and all the while Johnny prays that he will be smited by some almighty god. He thinks he deserves that mercy, at least. 

* * *

Johnny has made a terrifying discovery: 

He actually doesn’t mind farm work. 

It’s terrible and he knows it. The knowledge haunts him at all hours of the day. He, a city boy, a man of the town, is kind of growing to like spending his afternoons in the mud and muck.

What can he say? The physical labour involved is a great distraction. Spending hours hauling bales of hay, shovelling snow, raking leaves, herding sheep, and repairing holes in the fence means that he goes to bed aching and sore and _exhausted;_ which also means he actually sleeps most nights instead of staring through the skylight wondering if Sue is out there somewhere, waiting in agony. 

The work is mindless. He doesn’t have to think. Harley tells him what to do and he does it, and then eventually Harley doesn’t have to say anything at all because Johnny’s got it down. 

He’s a quick learner, always has been. 

They let the sheep out to pasture before school because, according to Harley, they can still dig grass out of the snow to eat. He says burning off energy is good for them, which makes sense. He and the sheep really get each other. 

While they’re in church—sorry, class—learning from outdated curriculum (like, the books still list Pluto as a planet), Johnny zones out and still somehow aces every pop quiz. His grades have never been higher and he’s not even putting in any effort. Like, he’s not _stupid_ or anything, but at least school had been challenging before. These days he and Harley can usually get away with a few rounds of tic-tac-toe, and sometimes Johnny even texts Peter under his desk. 

Speaking of Peter: the little goblin calls every day. It would be endearing if it weren’t so unnecessary. Johnny doesn’t know how to get it through Peter’s brick of a skull that _nothing ever happens in Rose Hill._ There is no news to report, no gossip to give. The most exciting thing that occurs between Johnny’s arrival and the lead up to Christmas is some woman having a baby.

“Christ, finally,” Harley says when he finds out, slapping the snow off his cap. “Seemed like she was pregnant for three fuckin’ years.”

It’s a girl. Her name is Magnolia. She’s born in the bed of a pick up truck on the way to the hospital, which is like, ten miles out of town. 

Johnny does not feel safe knowing that information.

But Peter still calls. Johnny usually talks to him before bed, curled onto his side with his eyes closed. He pretends he’s still in the city and they’re only boroughs apart instead of like, states. 

“Sam asked me something really scary today,” Peter says one night. 

Johnny is already shaking his head. “And what was that?”

“He asked—okay, he phrased it kind of weird, but the gist that I got was that like, he’s in love with May.”

“That doesn’t sound like a question.”

“Silence, I’m getting there. Anyway, he did the whole thing where he pulled me into the bathroom during dinner and started rambling about honour and honesty and respect and stuff—you know, all that dumb shit they used to say about Captain America before we found out he smokes weed and does butt stuff with Bucky—but _anyway,_ he asked me how I’d feel about him moving in.”

Johnny’s eyes fly open. He sits up a little. “What did you say?”

“I said I would think about it,” Peter replies, growing increasingly hysterical. “But I don’t know what I think! What do I think, Johnny? Tell me what to do, I don’t got no brain cells left in my head machine.”

Johnny groans and flops back against his pillows. It’s no good if _Peter.exe_ has stopped functioning, but it’s not like he can actually make this decision for his friend. 

“Did he say anything else?”

“Just that he doesn’t want to cross a line or move too fast and if I’m not okay with it, then like, he won’t.”

“Isn’t he a criminal?”

“Not since they finalised the Accords last week.”

Johnny bites the inside of his cheek. “How is Wanda?” he finds himself asking, instead of unravelling the thread of Peter’s potential step-uncle.

“Uh, fine. Literally all of the Rogues wanna stay in the townhouse except Sam. He’s not like other girls, I guess.”

Johnny snorts. “Would it really be so bad?”

“It’s not about _bad,_ Johnny Boy, it’s about _weird._ I still feel like I barely know the guy and I’m supposed to share my shoebox with him? This place is sacred to me! I leave my dirty clothes on the bathroom floor and walk around in my pajamas and stuff, you know? This is—it’s unideal, Johnny, it’s… it’s real bad.”

Johnny grins. That’s been easier lately. In fact, it’s starting to get hard _not_ to grin, living with someone like Harley Keener, who’s vernacular consists entirely of John Keats quotes and dirty jokes. 

“Hey Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“If there was enough room for Ben, why isn’t there still enough room for Sam?”

His friend is silent, and then, “I was really small back then.” Johnny laughs something ugly but Peter presses on. “No, I’m serious, I was Hobbit-sized. My lungs were two shrivelled up old bags and you could play my rib cage like a xylophone. I hardly took up any space at all.”

“You still don’t, Peter. You sleep in your bathtub like a cryptid and hang from your ceiling like a bat. There’s no furniture up there, right? Just make that your floor. Learn to co-exist.”

Peter whines. It sounds like he’s writhing around. Johnny can picture him all wrapped up in a blanket burrito, socks sticking out, hair all fucked up. 

Then, after a small pause, he says, “I think I still miss Ben too much.”

And for some reason it cracks at Johnny’s chest like a chisel, because yeah he’d felt sorry for Peter before, but now he _gets it._ Now he knows exactly how that feels. 

“So tell him that.”

“I _can’t.”_

“Why not? He said to be honest, right?”

“Yeah, but there’s a difference between honesty and like, ripping my entrails out and letting him examine my belly tubes.”

Johnny has to bite down on his knuckle to keep from busting a lung. He flops onto his other side. “What are you gonna do then? Lie and say you’re fine with it and then get uncomfortable in your own home?”

“...Probably.”

“Yeah, I see that working out real well. You’ll start avoiding it, and May will think you’re avoiding her, and then you’ll have a breakdown and make her feel like a jackass about the whole thing.”

“Are you an alien?”

“ _Peter._ ”

“No, really. Are you psychic? Is that one of your powers?”

“I’m just basing it off of what I think I would do.”

“Well we are very similar people,” Peter says. “May said that our auras are almost exactly alike, but you’re a little more red and I’m a little more yellow. Like, if it came down to an apocalyptic scenario, you’d go full anarchist and I’d probably be the guy who tries to keep it all together, but in a well-functioning society we both comply with common standards on account of peer pressure and we’re too afraid to let people down.” 

“Jesus Christ, if I wanted to speak to a shrink I’d call a hotline.”

Peter laughs. “I’m just telling you what she told me.”

“And she got all of this after meeting me like three times?”

“ _And_ I tell her about pretty much everything that happens to me ever,” Peter says. “She’s very observant. Picks up on all my vibes. It’s impossible, really, I’ve never been able to hide a single emotion from her.”

Johnny sighs through his nose and grabs a handful of clean white sheets. Ruby washed them that morning and made everyone’s beds. She’s real good at that: momming in her spare time, doing a million things at once. She’ll start a load of laundry and put a casserole in the oven and give Harley a talking-to all in the space of four minutes. 

“Sue was like that sometimes,” he whispers after a second.

“Do you want to talk about it?” asks Peter. 

“No,” Johnny says, and then, “She just understood everything in a way I never could. She got people, saw through their bullshit. I don’t think I could’ve fooled her if I tried.”

His chest aches. He feels like he’s dying. 

“It wasn’t your fault, Johnny.”

It’s not the first time Peter has said it, and Johnny says, “I know that,” right back. “Yeah, I know that.”

He sniffs. Peter is real quiet. 

“I should go,” Johnny says after a few more stilted seconds. “Night, idiot.”

“Night, Bic.”

Johnny snorts. “Shut the fuck up.”

* * *

It happens like this:

Ruby picks up a shift at the diner. The three of them trudge to the bus stop like usual, but at the last second Johnny and Harley run off before boarding and leave Poppy banging on the back window of the bus, absolutely furious. 

They go ice skating. 

Johnny falls into the lake. 

It’s a total accident, a scene pulled right out of _It’s a Wonderful Life._ They’re both on the ice and then only Harley is, because Johnny’s in the water. 

Interestingly enough, the first thing Johnny thinks is not, _Ah! Fuck! Cold!_

It’s: _finally._

His skates are so heavy and all the layers he’s bundled up in make straining for the surface cumbersome—almost impossible. He still fights, but it’s so dark down here that he’s lost track of where the ice broke in. 

Johnny is sinking and sinking, and the black below is pulling, and it promises an end to all the pain. 

Just like it had taken Sue and Reed, it wants to take him. 

Johnny thinks he might just let it. 

He’s so tired after all. He can’t even feel his legs anymore, and what’s up with that? 

He stops swimming. 

Just for a second—a stupid, exhausted second. 

But it’s long enough for him to plummet a good few feet. The only reason he isn’t swallowed is because someone grabs at him.

Harley scratches at him first and then gets a real grip. He pulls Johnny up the rest of the way, so sudden and sharp that Johnny feels the pull of it in his shoulder. 

Johnny breaks the surface with a gasp, coughing up water. The cold hits then. Johnny’s body temperature plummets to sub-zero and his movements are glacial. 

Thankfully Harley is still pulling, trying to get him as far away from the mouth in the ice as he can. He only stops when they make it to the edge of the lake, where the snow is dusty and the ice is thick. 

Harley drops to his knees, chest heaving. “Fuck,” he breathes. “What the _fuck._ ” 

“You’re crying,” is all Johnny can say, because there are tears on Harley’s cheeks that catch gold in the morning sun. It’s beautiful. 

_He’s_ beautiful. 

“I’m what?” Harley demands incredulously. He doesn’t even realise it. “You fell,” he sobs. “You just—I didn’t think—oh my _god,_ Jay.”

Johnny starts to shiver. His skin feels tight, like it’s covered in a layer of verglas and frost. “I’m s-sorry,” he stammers stupidly. 

Harley wipes his red eyes. “It’s fine, just—do the Samantha Genie thing, would you? Wiggle your nose and get warm.”

But Johnny is already shaking his head. “I can’t,” he whispers, and his breath is a plume of white steam. “I c-can’t do it.” 

“What do you mean?”

“It won’t work,” Johnny spits through a spasming shudder. “I can’t flame on. I’m so c-cold, Harley.” 

“Jesus, Johnny, why didn’t you tell me you were broken?!”

Then he’s ripping at Johnny’s big plaid jacket and pulling it off; stripping him of his sopping wet outer layers and replacing them with his own dry coat and gloves and hat. “Come on, get up,” he says, “we need to take you back to the house.”

It’s not a long way, but the fact that it’s fucking freezing out doesn’t help matters any. By the time they get inside, Johnny’s hands are blue-tipped. 

Harley turns on the radiator and drops Johnny onto the old plaid loveseat near the bay window. He works off Johnny’s boots and then his jeans, and Johnny is too numb to notice or care. He’s so numb he can’t feel it. 

He can’t _feel._

That, at least, is familiar. 

Harley moves around Johnny like a frantic mother hen, feeling his forehead and wrapping heated blankets around his body until—

“Stop it, Harley.”

He freezes. Johnny’s got his fingers wrapped around Harley’s thin, delicate wrist. Johnny can see his veins beneath his skin. He feels for his pulse: rapid, jumping, erratic. 

Johnny pulls. “Body heat,” he whispers. 

“What? Oh. _Oh._ ”

Johnny sits up a little to make room for him, and it seems like they have the same idea because Harley burrows in behind him. He pulls Johnny against his chest. Then he says, “No, wait,” and peels off one more layer—what a fucking onion—and works his sweater over Johnny’s head. 

The sleeves are too long and the material is scratchy, but it’s woolly and warm and dry and it smells like Harley. 

_Everything_ smells like Harley. 

Still shivering, Johnny falls against him, wrapping his arms around Harley’s torso and burying his face in the crook of his neck. 

At least it’s a good excuse to hold onto the one really good thing he’s got going for him right now. 

Harley holds Johnny right back: gathers him up, drawing him close, and it’s good. It’s the best, actually; fucking phenomenonal in every sense of the word. He could stay like this for a million years. _Jesus._

“I can’t believe you fell into the fuckin’ lake,” Harley whispers, and he’s doing this thing—he’s got his hand against the base of Johnny’s neck and he keeps dragging his thumb up and down, over and over. 

It makes Johnny’s breath catch. He squeezes his eyes shut tight. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, like a fucking idiot. 

“Sorry? What in Sam Hill do you have to be _sorry_ for? It wasn’t your fault, Johnny.”

Falling wasn’t, but sinking was. 

Johnny can’t say it, though. He can’t because he knows Harley will start crying again and he won’t understand why Johnny could do something like that, because Harley Keener finds beauty in the simplest things, sees the good in everyone, and that makes life easier for him. 

So he just nods and thanks the baby Jesus that he’s not sopping wet anymore. Between Harley and the electric blankets on their highest setting, he might actually start to sweat soon. 

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Johnny says. “I’m—dandy, really. Aces.”

Harley snorts and Johnny feels his chest jerk with it. He leans back just to catch the smirk he knows that he’ll find, all crooked and sharp. 

He looks at Harley. 

Harley looks right back. 

Johnny’s eyes flicker down to Harley’s mouth, which is slowly parting, and Johnny has a stupid thinkie that maybe it would be sort of cool to kiss him. It’s not the first time this thinkie has occurred, but it’s stronger now than it ever has been before. His stomach twists and he wonders if Harley would taste like the Burt’s Bees chapstick he keeps in the bathroom—

Then something whistles in the kitchen. 

“Oh shit,” Harley says, squirming to get up, “that’s the water for your tea.”

“But I hate tea,” Johnny protests, making grabby hands after him. 

“It’s only to warm you up,” Harley calls as he stumbles from the living room to the kitchen. Johnny can hear him fumbling around in there. “The tea keeps you company. It’s like a little friend.” 

Johnny sighs and drops his chin onto the seat. He thinks about what he’d wanted to do, what he’d straight up almost done, and prays that he’ll be eaten by this ugly, outdated piece of furniture before Harley gets back. 

He is not eaten. 

Harley lowers himself to the floor this time and gently sets the tea on the coffee table he’d built. It’s a sturdy little thing, perfectly level, and Johnny’s cheeks flush thinking about Harley sanding it down in the middle of summer—sweat on his brow, shirt gone—fuck, what the _fuck_ is wrong with him?! He literally almost died, doesn’t he have more important things to worry about?

“Hey,” Harley whispers. He touches Johnny again and it’s electrifying, Johnny is simply buzzing. 

Until he rotates Johnny’s arm and just deflates. “Shit. I didn’t realise. Let me go get some peroxide and a bandage.”

And Johnny has absolutely no idea what he’s talking about until he looks up: there are three red, raw marks on his wrist from when Harley had scratched him. They’re not deep or anything, but who knows what’s living in that water. 

He stares at them the entire time Harley is rifling through the kitchen for the first aid kit. When he comes back and reaches for Johnny, Johnny flinches. 

“Oh, fuck. I’m sorry, Johnny—”

“No, it’s—” he shakes his head and holds his arm out again. “It’s fine. Do your thing.”

To his credit, Harley is real gentle about cleaning the wound. He dabs at it softly and applies some kind of ointment, and that’s right around when Johnny remembers: him and Harley in Tony Stark’s bathroom, and that tiny smile Harley’d had on his face while he wiped the concealer off of Johnny’s nose. 

Johnny feels like he’s gonna faint. Like, he seriously might pull a Peter Parker right now. 

Harley’s got his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he concentrates and he asks, “Is that too tight?” when he wraps the gauze around Johnny’s forearm. 

Johnny shakes his head. He wonders if it’s obvious how completely shooketh he is right now. “It’s fine.”

“Great,” Harley says brightly. Then, like the complete dork he is, he pinches Johnny’s nose and says, “Honk!” 

Johnny can only laugh. He guesses that wins Harley a few points, and watches as his friend lunges for the basket by the couch that holds old magazines and letters and the odd book. He pulls out a worn, thin paperback and tells Johnny to scoot. 

They return to just how they were, except this time Harley absently wraps an arm around Johnny’s stomach and nothing could be better. The weight is pleasant and grounding and God, Johnny is dizzier than a character in a Brontë book after accidentally brushing hands with the romantic lead. 

“‘When everything seems double. Methinks I see these things with parted eye,’” Harley murmurs. His voice is low and rumbling. “‘So methinks, and I have found Demetrius like a jewel, mine own, and not mine own.’” 

“What is that?” Johnny whispers. 

“ _A Midsummer Night’s Dream,_ ” Harley replies. “Figured it was about time you read some fuckin’ Shakespeare besides _Romeo and Juliet._ ” 

“Methinks that Shakespeare is overrated.”

“Hush, foolish child,” Harley says, petting Johnny’s head like he’s trying to calm an over-excited dog. 

His hand stays there. 

“‘Are you sure that we are awake? It seems to me that yet we sleep, we dream.’” 

Johnny feels something settle in his chest. His eyes grow heavy and he can’t help it: he slumps against Harley, grasping at his shirt and listening to the rumbling of his chest. 

The fireplace pops and it starts to snow again. Harley’s cheek falls against the top of Johnny’s head. 

Johnny sleeps and dreams and feels warmer than he has in a long time. 

* * *

Johnny is peeling the last few frozen Pillsbury monstrosity cancer cookies apart when Harley says, “Disgusting. If you can’t bake it, don’t fake it.” 

“I’m an excellent baker. Look at me go! Treats for everyone!”

“He’s a keeper,” Poppy whispers to Harley, just loud enough that Johnny hears. 

“You bet your Kentucky-fried tuchus I am,” Johnny asserts as he puts the tray in the oven. “You go queue the movie up, I’ll be right in.”

“Are you sure you’re not just gonna dip out because you hate it?”

“I know you have abandonment issues, but I need you to understand that you could not pay me enough money to leave when there are Pillsbury place-and-bake cookies in the oven.” 

Harley snarfs. “Okay, fine, I’ll go get it ready. But you oughta hurry or you’ll miss the beginning.”

“I won’t miss the beginning. I want to because I hate this movie, but I treasure you, so I won’t.”

“Will you at least _try_ to be fast? Not everything needs to complete a Chloe Ting circuit workout before being presentable for the public eye.”

Johnny turns to Harley. He’s such a dummy. His hair is all messy from the cat nap he’d taken that afternoon and he’s wearing three sweaters. _Three._ He’s so dramatic.

At least he remembered his glasses today. 

Johnny points towards the living room. “You’re banished. Bye, Mister Banished man.”

_“Fare thee well, king: sith thus thou wilt appear, freedom lives hence, and banishment is here,”_ Harley recites sadly. 

“I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

“I might someday if you don’t get out!”

“Told what to do in my own damn house. Unbelievable.” Nonetheless, he gets up and trudges into the living room. 

Johnny sighs heavily, slumping against the countertop. Oh, how he aches, hurts, _mourns._ Sweet death, come claim him. 

“Nice,” Poppy deadpans. 

Johnny practically leaps onto the ceiling. 

“That was cute,” Poppy continues. “So when are you gonna kiss him?”

“I’m—” Johnny squeaks. “I am not. Kiss? I don’t even know the meaning of the word. Never. Disgusting behavior.”

Poppy snorts. “Don’t be stupid, and don’t let something good pass you by because you think the timing is wrong.”

“Isn’t it?!”

“Nope. You’re just in your head. You know what’ll get you out of it?”

“No, but do tell.”

“Lots of kissies!” she crows, then makes an exaggerated smacking sound with her lips. 

Johnny presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and screams a little. He heads into the pantry, whacks his head on a drawer, and starts rifling through the bags and boxes. He hums in satisfaction when he finds what he’d been searching for. “Yum, snacky time.”

“I’m gonna start it without you!” Harley yodels. 

“Maybe you should! I told you I don’t wanna watch it!” Johnny shouts as he returns to the counter. Poppy is now perched on top of it. She looks unimpressed. 

“I really will start it you know!”

“Then do it, coward!” 

Johnny starts pouring into the bowls. “You want some Chex Mix, Poppy June?”

“I’ll cut your hair off while you sleep if you keep calling me that.”

Johnny stares at her with affront. “You _wouldn’t._ ”

“I would. I _will.”_

“I’m gonna click play!”

“Geez oh peets,” Johnny mutters, officially starting to wig out. 

He sorts out the snacks and then hurries into the den with Poppy on his heels. Harley has the remote in his hand, but he’s currently locked in a deep staring contest with Barnabus. 

Johnny clears his throat. “I hate to interrupt… whatever the fuck this is.” 

Barnabus yowls and runs for Poppy. Harley grins at Johnny and makes grabby hands. “Gimme,” he says. “Hungy boy.”

“You are _so_ fucking weird.”

Johnny hands a bowl off to Poppy, though one of her arms is now bearing the weight of Bastard, and plops next to Harley on the couch with the other. 

Harley grabs a handful and shoves it into his mouth as he presses play, crumbs littering the front of his sweater and clinging to his lips. Horrendous. _Disgusting._ There is no part of Johnny that feels endeared by this behaviour. 

Harley’s presses his ankle against Johnny’s, and Johnny’s heart goes ‘ _!!!!’_. The movie plays, all Tim Burton style creepy, fucking zombies and anthropomorphic burlap sacks and plague doctors and headless ghoulies. 

Johnny, personally, does not enjoy this movie. It simply is not his scene. 

He watched Barbie Rapunzel and Swan Lake with Sue as a kid. The animation quality? Far surpassing its time. The storylines? Simply full of golden moments. The narrative tension? Palpable. Genius, truly. 

Can he be _blamed_ for the way he turned out? 

Harley on the other hand, keeps his wide eyes glued to the screen, shoving handfuls of Chex Mix into his mouth without looking where to aim. He mumbles along with not only the lyrics, but the _lines._ Like, even the bullshit those three creepy kids say. 

What really rubs Johnny wrong is how much Sally resonates with him today. 

He wonders the fuck why. 

(No he doesn’t. Staring up at someone brilliant and strong and capable like Harley—like Jack, Johnny corrects himself—it’s hard not to love them.

And does he love Harley?

Sure. He gave him a place to live and a semblance of normalcy. 

But does he _love_ Harley?

He looks at him: big eyes behind his glasses and lead stains on the side of his left hand, drowning in a too-big sweater. 

To be determined.)

As _What’s This?_ starts, Harley springs to his feet. He stands up on the couch and starts jumping and actually _singing along,_ voice loud, mimicking the way Jack Skellington contorts his own body. 

He hops on top of the coffee table. “What’s this!” he yelps. 

“Table,” Johnny offers helpfully under the sound of Harley’s voice. 

The song slows slightly and Harley starts to like, _really sing,_ warm and soft but also rough with a steady vibrato. 

_“There’s frost on every window, oh, I can’t believe my eyes!”_

He looks right at Johnny. 

_“And in my bones I feel the warmth that’s coming from inside,”_ he sings. 

Johnny is pinned to the couch. He’s fucking—

Harley stares and his eyes are a little dark, and Johnny can’t _breathe,_ he absolutely can’t. 

_“What’s this!”_ Harley yells, and the moment breaks. 

“ _Hnnghn,_ ” Johnny groans, slumping against the cushions. 

Harley practically steps on him when he hops over Johnny’s thighs to plop down right next to Poppy. She gives him a death stare. It’s enough to make him turn tail and head right back over to bothering Johnny. 

Johnny squeezes the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He wants to _bury_ himself in the _yard._

He decides right then that Lucy is his favorite Keener. She causes him the least stress. 

No, that’s too mean to Ruby. He adores Ruby. Ruby is his favorite, but Lucy is a close second. 

The song ends—fucking finally—and Harley falls onto his ass next to Johnny, chest heaving because he’s an out of shape little shit. 

“Show over?” Johnny asks. 

Harley hums. “Sleepy.”

“Well that’s your own dumb fault,” Johnny retorts loftily. 

“No dumb,” Harley mutters. 

“I like it when you’re so winded you can’t speak,” Johnny says, then realizes how that sounds. 

He doesn’t even try to fix it. 

Harley just snorts a little. “Then make it happen more often,” he mutters, and drops his head onto Johnny’s shoulder. 

Johnny scoots just close enough that their thighs are touching. Without really thinking about it, he reaches for the hem of Harley’s sweater, just to have something to hold onto. 

Harley’s hair smells like peppermint shampoo. He rests his cheek against the top of Harley’s head. 

Johnny’s internal screaming has reached an absolute fever pitch. 

It’s incredibly hard for Johnny to focus on the film when he can feel Harley’s heart thumping against his shoulder. It’s loud and a little fast like him, and erratic too. He finds himself closing his eyes. 

The movie drones on in the background, but it doesn’t grate Johnny’s nerves any longer. Maybe, Johnny thinks, there’s something a little nostalgic about it. 

They did meet on Halloween, after all. 

* * *

**Sabrina the Teenage Bitch:**

Ned has been asleep on my bed for over an hour 

**It‘s Michael Jackson!:**

Put his hand in water 

**Petey-Poo:**

No don’t do that 

I tried that once and he legit peed 

**It’s Michael Jackson!:**

DO IT!

**Sabrina the Teenage Bitch:**

It’s not worth the cost 

I just wanted to watch Gossip Girl with someone 

:(

**Wyatt Earp:**

Hey upper east siders

**Petey-Poo:**

The way that that fit so well

what the fuck

**Wyatt Earp:**

You gotta slide in when the moment is wet

i mean right

**Jeff Probst’s Torch:**

The way that I just vomited out of my own ass 

**It’s Michael Jackson!:**

I don’t know which of you is more disgusting 

**Jeff Probst’s Torch:**

please I’m a fucking delight 

**Petey-Poo:**

it’s true

johnny you’re an angel and we’re

thrilled you’re here 

**Sabrina the Teenage Bitch:**

Can you like not quote memes for two seconds 

Like

Have an original thought 

**Petey-Poo:**

Wow go off I guess 

**Wyatt Earp:**

the volume in this bus is astronomical 

**Sabrina the Teenage Bitch:**

lol

**Petey-Poo:**

Wait HE gets to quote memes and I don’t??

the fuck??

**Jeff Probst’s Torch:**

I mean to be fair 

we’re literally on a bus 

and the volume is actually astronomical 

**Petey-Poo:**

hey how is school going 

did you eat breakfast 

did you pack lunch 

are you doing your homework 

**Wyatt Earp:**

oh I’m fine pete thanks for asking 

**Petey-Poo:**

that was directed at both of you 

**Wyatt Earp:**

i’ll believe it 

hesitantly 

**Jeff Probst’s Torch:**

school is boring as fuck 

I did eat breakfast. i think harley would shove it 

down my throat if I didn’t anyway, or like 

vomit it into my mouth like a mama bird 

which is giving me PTSD and it hasn’t even happened 

**Wyatt Earp:**

oh my—

**Petey-Poo:**

he’s doing the lord’s work

**Jeff Probst’s Torch:**

i have an apple for lunch 

harley picked it special from the tree outside uwu 

**Wyatt Earp:**

you bet your darn tootin’ ass i did 

**Jeff Probst’s Torch:**

I am doing. most of my homework 

**Petey-Poo:**

MOST? sir

**Wyatt Earp:**

stop being such a mom

his grades are fine 

**Petey-Poo:**

:( 

I’m a cool mom I promise 

**Wyatt Earp:**

no you’re just a regular mom 

also why does MJ have daddy energy 

someone explain it??? make it make sense?? 

**It’s Michael Jackson!:**

i’m not even mad 

like I fully agree 

hey peter why are you such a simp

**Petey-Poo:**

oh my god? im 

i am huh

only for u

ily 

**Wyatt Earp:**

yeah I’m gonna have to soak my eyeballs in bleach tonight 

like how old ladies put their dentures in water 

im fucking scarred from that so thanks 

**Sabrina the Teenage Bitch:**

Ned woke up 

xoxo gossip girl

* * *

Sometimes, if Johnny is good and quiet, he can faintly hear Harley playing his guitar through the ceiling that is his floor. 

Harley sounds really good, almost like he’s been playing forever, like it just comes naturally. 

When Johnny hears him sing for the first time, he decides that Harley’s voice is meant for the radio: all crackly and warm and a little rough around the edges. 

Johnny lays on the hardwood, pressing his ear to the panels. He listens like he’s getting to peer at the goings-on of heaven and here’s the private business of the angels. He wonders if maybe it’s a sin for him to be doing this, for him to be here at all. 

But if he’s damned for it? Damn him twice. Hell once over isn’t hot enough to make him regret this. 

* * *

“Put your finger there.”

Harley does exactly that, holding a strand of ribbon in place so that Johnny can curl it right. 

They’re in the den and have been for a good few hours, watching old episodes of _SNL_ on Johnny’s laptop and wrapping a ridiculous amount of gifts—most of which they plan to stuff into one gigantic box and ship off to New York. The remainder are all for Pop and Ruby. 

“What is this one again?”

“ _Trials of the Moon: Reopening the Case for Historical Witchcraft,”_ Johnny says. “For Wanda.”

“ _Wandaaaaaa_...” Harley drags her name out as he scrawls it on the tag. His writing is not the chicken scratch that Johnny had been expecting, but rather neat and looping and actually kind of fancy. 

Once it’s done, Johnny sets it aside and they start on the next gift: a hand-made cherry wood jewelry box that Harley’s apparently been whittling for Michelle since like, October. It’s small and polished and all three drawers are lined with black velvet. 

Johnny never would have guessed that someone as bumbling and awkward as Harley Keener could make something so elegant and fragile. He’s all pointy elbows and crooked spine—a total mess. He stomps on the stairs like an elephant and trips over his own feet weekly and leaves eraser shavings absolutely everywhere, all the time. He even does this especially dorky thing where he forgets he’s not wearing his glasses and tries to push the nonexistent frames up his nose. 

It’s actually Johnny’s favourite stupid habit of his, but no one needs to know that. 

Harley is unusually careful as he folds a layer of bubble-wrap around the box. Johnny tapes it down so it won’t unfurl, and then starts making it look nice and pretty. He’s decided to use plain brown paper for all of MJ’s gifts because he thinks she’ll dig the minimalistic aesthetic—especially with the twine and little cranberry sprigs Johnny’s using as garnishes. 

“You’re taking this very seriously,” Harley notes. 

Johnny tears his eyes away from Andy Samberg. “Gift wrapping is an art, Whippersnapper,” he says loftily. “Every present should be perfectly catered to its recipient.”

“So I guess the _Cars_ wrapping paper is for Peter?”

“You guess correctly.”

Harley hums at that and scoots forward a little. “So what are you gonna get me?”

Johnny fights down the wave of panic and nausea he feels and tries to act nonchalant. He is cool as a cucumber! There is nothing to see here, folks! 

“Like I would just tell you that.”

“Oh, come on, please? I’m dying, here. Mama always gets me the same thing every year and I _know_ I’m just gonna get a bunch of incense sticks from Poppy. The only chance of there being any real flavour here is you.”

“Why would you want me to ruin it, then?”

“Because it’s bugging me so bad I’m getting an eye twitch? Because you love me? Because if I hate it this gives you the perfect amount of time to exchange it for something better?”

Johnny almost botches the tape. _Yes,_ he thinks, and wishes he could scream it instead, _yes, that. One of those._

“I’m not telling.”

Harley groans and flops miserably onto his back, coming dangerously close to whacking his own head against the old TV set. His complaining might ordinarily be enough to get Johnny to cave, only he _can’t_ this time on account of he still hasn’t gotten Harley a fucking gift yet. 

He has _no idea_ what to get for him. What do you buy for the guy that never expresses a desire for anything? Who never so much as drops a _hint_ about what he might want? At least Sue had been kind enough to write a damn _list._

God, this boy and his backwoods ways. He’s gonna be the death of Johnny.

Harley sits back up and rests his elbows on his knees. He watches the computer screen, but every few seconds his gaze flits to Johnny, searching and intent and kind of dark.

Johnny thinks he would melt if he were capable of that sort of thing. As it is, his palms start to sweat. 

“What are you gonna get me?”

Harley’s lip quirks up and he has the actual audacity to _wink._ “That’s a surprise, sugarplum.” 

Johnny’s hands spasm involuntarily and the paper rips. “Fuck,” he hisses, reaching for more. “Fuckity fuck-fuck fucker. Do you have any idea how thin this shit is? I could breathe on it wrong and it would tear. I might as well wrap this in one-ply toilet paper.”

Harley clicks his tongue and gently pries the gift away. His solution is horrendous: rather than removing the ruined layer, he simply doubles up on them, which ruins all of Johnny’s careful lines and creases. The whole thing is bulky and crooked when it’s done. 

“Disgraceful. Zero out of ten.” He sniffs. “Thanks.”

Harley smirks as he hands it over for Johnny to decorate. Their fingers brush. Johnny is gonna scream, he really is. 

“No problem.” 

Andy Samberg and Justin Timberlake start singing about dicks in boxes. Johnny deliriously thinks, _if only,_ and thanks the high heavens that it’s so dark Harley can’t see him blush. 

* * *

The cat is in Johnny’s pocket.

It’s a small cat and a big pocket, but still: how fucking cute? 

Johnny had been sitting in front the fireplace hoping maybe hoping Reed’s salt-and-pepper hair would peek out from between the licks of flame like Sirius Black visiting Harry at Hogwarts, when the cat had clambered up from _literally nowhere_ (ghost cat). It had put its tiny little bean paws on Johnny’s thigh and tugged itself up, clawing and screaming, and then used its new height to grab at the pocket of Johnny’s overlarge, loose shirt. 

He may or may not have put his hand under Barnabus’s ass to give him a boost. 

Barnabus had dived right in and then righted himself. His little ginger head peered out, self-satisfied, surveying the living room like he’s just deposed a king and plans to starve the people or something. 

Now they’re just chilling. Bros being bros.

“Hi, sweetness,” Johnny mumbles, tucking his chin to press a kiss against Barnabus’s tiny head. He then immediately sneezes and the cat yowls at the noise.

“Sorry,” Johnny says, and then sneezes again. He has the foresight to aim it into the crook of his elbow this time, though. 

He sighs mournfully and continues petting Barnabus’s bastard cranium, stroking him right between the ears.

A few minutes of near-silence pass—broken only by the pop of the embers in the fireplace and Barnabus’ motorboat purr—before the floorboards creak under someone’s weight. 

Harley sits down next to Johnny. His sock has a hole in the heel. Johnny is going to punch him right in his stupid mouth.

“Hey,” Harley says, one coconut shy of being downright outraged. “You’re carrying my prick of a cat in your pocket like a fucking Machiavellian prince? What the fuck? You do realise you’re encouraging him to act even more spoiled now.”

“I’d carry you in my pocket too if you were tiny enough,” says Johnny thoughtlessly. “Tiny goblin boy. I’d leave you little snacks like Ritz crackers and Sweet Tarts.”

Harley thinks about that for a moment. Then he nods, appeased. “And blackberries.” 

“Sure.”

“They’re my favorite.”

“I’ll make a note.” 

Johnny won’t have to. He’ll remember.

“What are you doing in here all by yourself?” Harley whispers.

“Sitting. Staring. Petting the little asshole.”

“Johnny,” Harley says, but before he can continue, he’s interrupted by Ruby’s call.

“Harley?” her voice comes from the other room. “Have you checked on Lucy? I think it’s starting to snow. You might want to put her in that cute little poncho you knit her.”

Johnny looks up. “You knit your cow a poncho?” 

“It’s a beautiful wrap. A shawl, if you will. She could wear it to a black tie event if people were thoughtful enough to invite her to ’em. Or a Christening, we have lots of those here.”

“A funeral,” Johnny suggests, “for the poor thing down the street they’re gonna slaughter to make Shepherd’s Pie this season.”

Harley yanks Johnny’s earlobe, prompting his shrill yelp. “We don’t talk about animals dying where Poppy can hear,” he hisses. “It sends her into hysterics.”

“Sends me into hysterics, too. Just like, on the inside.”

“Bet a lot of things send you a lot of places on the inside, and we’d never be able to tell from out here.”

Johnny looks at Harley, feeling his stomach sink for some reason. He frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Harley just reaches out to grab the end of Johnny’s sleeve. “Are you okay, Jay?”

Johnny breathes. “I’m fine.” 

“No you’re not.”

“I am.”

“ _Not._ Stop lying.”

“I’m not _lying,_ ” Johnny snaps, tired of this constant back-and-forth bullshit. “Are you ever gonna back off, or am I so _messed up_ that you really feel like you can’t leave me alone for five minutes without me—I dunno, burying myself under the deck? Jumping in the lake?”

“Maybe you are that messed up, Hot Head,” Harley says heatedly, leaning forward. “I sure as fuck wouldn’t know, considering you don’t _say anything,_ you don’t _talk to me._ You don’t talk to me,” he repeats, a little brokenly, “how am I supposed to know if you’re okay, Johnny?”

Johnny pulls his sleeve out of Harley’s hand. “You don’t want to know.”

“And pray tell, what is _that_ supposed to mean, Jonathan?”

“What the _fuck,”_ Johnny spits. “Harles...ton.”

_“Harleston?”_

“I don’t know what Harley is short for!”

“It’s short for _Harley!”_

“You are so fucking _infuriating!”_ Johnny explodes. He pulls Barnabus out of his pocket so he can be truly unhinged for a moment without fearing for the stupid cat’s safety. “Always pushing buttons, always trying to fix me like I’m some kind of a fucking engine. I’m not an engine! I’m not a machine! I’m not gonna just _collapse_ when I stop working properly, okay? You can’t switch my gaskets out for brand spanking new ones and then watch me ride off into the sunset with my engine a’purring! That’s not how it fucking works!”

“Then what do I do?” Harley is all but begging. “Come on, sweetheart, tell me. Lay it out. What do I do? Because I’ve been feeling my way through the fucking dark here. I don’t know how to _fix this.”_

“You _don’t!_ God, you can’t ever fix this! No one can, no one—” Johnny cuts off to take a breath that burns in his chest. He puts his palms on the floor and drops his head. “No one can fix me. You said it yourself: I’m broken. I’m broken, and I’m gonna be like this forever, probably. Just a bunch of pieces that don’t fit no matter how much you move them around. I don’t fit together, Harley,” Johnny’s throat is raw from the yelling, “I don’t fit, I don’t—I’m fucking _useless_ without her—” he gasps again, the wave of it dragging him under, riptide pulling, “—I’m _nothing_ without them, I’m fucking nothing! I don’t know how to do this, I can’t live like this! I can’t _live like this, Harley!_ I’m so _tired._ I’m so _cold.”_

Johnny sobs once and another sneaks up on him, leaves him thrashing in the foam, salt water pouring down his throat thick and fast enough to choke. 

Harley doesn’t speak. He doesn’t say a goddamn word.

Johnny presses his sleeve over his mouth and the sound he makes next is almost a whine. He squeezes his eyes shut tight so he doesn’t have to see Harley, so it’s harder for Harley to see _him._

His hands curl into fists to hide their shaking. He’s sinking, that’s it. Sinking into a pit of quicksand that he never saw coming. It’s up to his chest and then in his throat, filling him all up. He strains for a breath. Holds it.

“Johnny,” Harley says, voice fractured all the way through; a lightning bolt of electric seams, startling and terrible. “Johnny. _Johnny._ ”

“Hey,” comes another voice, and it’s Ruby, and that _hurts._ “Oh, honey. Okay. Harley, go do your chores in the barn. It’s Mama time.”

“But—”

_“Now,_ baby.”

Johnny feels Harley stand, feels his fingers skim the top of Johnny’s curls like an apology, feels him go. 

He _leaves_ _Johnny_ _here,_ and hasn’t Johnny had enough of that? Hasn’t he? Please, God, _please_.

Ruby sits down in the spot Harley vacated. She cups Johnny’s face in her hands and presses a kiss to his forehead. 

That has him folding again, breaths sharp and wet, heartbeat skipping, hands shaking because those should only ever be _Sue’s_ lips; because only Reed should feel this skinny but sturdy against him; he shouldn’t have a cat brushing against his thigh, it should be Val there, or Frankie—filling Johnny’s lap with Goldfish crackers so he’ll find the crumbs later on like some sort of kid confetti.

It’s the first night of Hanukkah. 

He called Ben to wish him _Hanukkah Sameach._ Ben didn’t pick up.

Sue would’ve bought them all blue sweaters with obnoxiously large stuffed Menorahs poking out of the front. Reed would probably sound his way through a passage in Hebrew. Ben would spoil the kids _rotten._

Johnny would take Ben’s chin in his hand, bump their foreheads together, and then grin at him, a little teasing, a little genuine, because for all their fighting? They _love_ each other. That’s his _brother._

Johnny presses his hand to his chest, trying to shift the weight, trying to push it to his shoulders. Anywhere else, anywhere that can hold it.

He can’t.

“Right here, honey,” Ruby whispers, lifting her shoulder like _Saved you a spot._

Johnny leans against her. His nose presses against her collarbones. He starts crying because he can’t hold it in anymore and she rubs his back, hushing. After a minute or so she starts to rock him a little, and— 

“Sue used to do that,” he croaks. “If I was upset, she would…” 

“Yeah?” Ruby prompts. She smoothes a hand over Johnny’s hair. “What else?”

Johnny’s heart skips. “She would… she’d make us watch a movie. A happy one. And she’d pop too much popcorn on the stove and probably burn it all. Just—completely charred, like eating ash, but we’d finish it anyway and we wouldn’t say a word because she tried so hard.”

“Was she not a very good cook?”

“God, no,” Johnny breathes. “She was horrendous. _I_ cooked more than she ever did. She could do cereal and sandwiches and that was it. But she had a lot of heart. She always did with everything.”

“Sounds like that’s something you shared.”

Johnny feels like sobbing again. “I hope. God, I always wanted to be just like her. She was so strong. I can’t imagine her not being here. She was the only thing I’d ever had for my whole life.”

“Now you don’t know where you stand anymore without her,” Ruby surmises. 

Johnny sniffs. He wipes his nose on the cuff of his sleeve. “I’m nothing without her. Everything I am is _because_ of her.”

“Well that’s just not true, is it?”

“Of course it is. My whole life, I just tried to do what she did. But like, slower. And on fire. And usually worse.”

“You cook better,” Ruby starts. “What else? What in that head of yours is all _you?”_

Johnny thinks, and the first thing he summons is: _Absolutely nothing._

He’s a face behind a screen and even that isn’t really him. Any idiot can use Instagram, any asshole can make a Tweet just relatable and absurd enough to go viral.

But a voice—one that sounds an awful lot like Peter—tells him to shut the fuck up. To _think, Flamebrain. What are you? Who?_

“I was always better at makeup,” Johnny tries. “And picking clothes. I chose her outfits a lot of the time.”

“Now there’s something,” Ruby says, smiling and squeezing the back of Johnny’s neck. “What else?”

“I… I can, um, fix up cars. She’s a genius, but she never liked cars all that much. And she was _amazing_ with the kids, but she couldn’t—she couldn’t get them to eat their vegetables like I could.” Johnny sniffles again, nearly choking. “She couldn’t sit through Harry Potter movies, and she couldn’t figure out why a skin care routine is so important, and she loved bananas probably more than she loved Reed.” 

Johnny’s sobbing again. Big, _sad_ sobs, right from the pit of his stomach.

“That’s right. You just cry, honey. I know.”

“It hurts,” Johnny whispers, but it’s really just empty space, a whole fucking sky’s worth of it, and he can’t pick out Sue and Reed and the kids from between the stars. They’re all too bright, too packed together. “It hurts so bad.”

“You know what you need?” 

Johnny pulls back just enough to look at her. 

“Pie.”

Johnny blinks. He lets Ruby tug him to his feet and lead him into the kitchen.

She bakes a whole-ass cherry pie right there in front of him. She orange zest and cinnamon in the filling and everything. 

Johnny watches her move. She doesn’t walk like Sue, who had been a bit clumsier, a bit goofier. Ruby flits. Johnny pictures translucent wings Johnny pictures that would fit right in between her shoulder blades. 

Johnny is still waiting for the day he really uncovers the Keener faerie conspiracy. It’ll make the news, he’s sure of it. 

They sit in silence while the pie bakes. Johnny watches the snow fall out the window. Ruby gets up to wash the kitchen in increments, as if she constantly needs to be working. She’s like Harley that way, but different in that she chooses one soap and sticks with it. 

For some reason, he’s relieved to see a contrast. 

The quiet isn’t heavy. It’s like bandaging his knuckles after a fight: it’s something he needs to make sure he heals right, something to staunch the bleeding. 

The oven beeps. 

Ruby pulls the pie out.

“Now, I know you’re not supposed to eat things right outta the oven on account of letting the flavors settle,” Ruby says, like she’s a teen telling her mom that her weed stash is actually _really healthy for you, especially compared to alcohol, you know?_ “but I think we can make an exception. This is pretty urgent pie supply.”

“Yeah, I need that in my face hole now before I scream or something.”

“You can still scream if you want,” she offers, cutting a slice. “Supposed to be healthy for you. Endorphins or something.”

“Ugh. Don’t science _screaming,_ Mama.”

Johnny freezes. 

Ruby doesn’t. She keeps going as if she hadn’t even heard, but the little smile on her lips sells her out. “I can’t science shit, Peaches, but it sounds like something Harley could have said at some point. He must’ve rubbed off on me.”

“How unfortunate.”

Ruby laughs out loud, her head falling back. “He’s just stubborn. He’ll understand eventually, he’s just gotta crack his egg of a head first.” She slides the plate along the counter to Johnny. 

Then she stands right next him and pushes his fringe from his eyes. It pretty much fixes everything. Her fingernails run through his curls and probably mess them all up, but who cares? _He’s_ a fucking mess. 

Crying is supposed to help this shit. It’s supposed to make him feel better, but it hasn’t. His chest is just as gaping and now his head hurts on top of it.

Johnny leans into her touch like a neglected dog. “Thank you,” he whispers. 

“Shush up and try the pie.”

“Yes’m.” He stabs it viciously with his fork and starts scooping it up. “Hhh—oh, ho’—it’s hot—reeeally goo’, though.”

She snorts inelegantly—and God, that could’ve snurgled its way right out of Harley’s chest, they’re just the same. She brushes his hair back again. 

Johnny eats his pie. She stands and watches. It isn’t weird.

It’s just as Johnny is scraping the last crumbs off the plate that Harley comes back inside, lips bitten bloody, cheeks pink, eyes red-rimmed. His form is barely discernible through the layers of sweaters and pants and hats that he’s stuffed himself into.

Johnny watches Harley strip off his beanie. It’s the one with the stupid bobble at the top, floppy and forest green. It makes his eyes look pretty. 

He can’t look away when Harley has to hop on one foot to keep his balance as he pulls off his boots. He can’t look away when Harley straightens, blows warm air into his palms, stares into space for a moment. Can’t look away when Harley stops, back hunching as he rests his palms on his knees, shaking with a sob of his own.

Johnny feels whatever peace Ruby’s soothing had brought crash down around him like of glass and pottery and plaster busted on the floor at his feet.

His fault. Breaking goddamn everything.

Johnny pushes his stool back. The sound startles Harley and he finally looks up—squinting until he finally sees Johnny and Ruby there. His jaw slackens.

“Oh,” he says. “ _Oh._ ” 

He stares hard at Johnny, searching, some complicated emotion screwing up his lips. “Johnny,” he croaks, and then takes a wavering step forward. 

Johnny’s heart flips. In a flurry of sheer panic, he grabs his plate and his fork and all but runs for the stairs. When he reaches the top, he yanks on the cord to pull down the ladder. 

Harley, behind him, “Johnny? Jay, come on, please?” 

Ruby, even further down, clinging to the wall. “Honey, come back!”

“You planning on licking that plate clean?” he hears Harley holler thickly, but it’s too late. 

* * *

Johnny stares at what remains of the pie. 

It’s all yucky now, congealed and cold, just sitting there looking exactly how he feels. Miserable. Dejected. Utterly wrecked. 

Jesus, he’s comparing himself to food. 

Makes sense. He’s never felt less human. 

Frustrated, Johnny shoots out of the rickety wooden chair in front of his writing desk and paces the length of the attic. He runs a hand through his hair and then flexes his open palms. 

He needs... something, he needs something. 

Something to touch. Someone to hold. 

On impulse he jerks toward the little trap door and pushes it open. To his surprise, he’s not greeted with the sight of the dark and empty hallway. 

Instead Harley is there, sitting cross-legged with his head tilted all the way back. He stares up at Johnny. 

“You’ve just been sitting out there like a kicked puppy this whole time?” Johnny demands. 

Harley shrugged. “Didn’t know what else to do.”

And Johnny wants to get mad. He opens his mouth to yell something about Harley leaving him alone, letting him grieve in peace, but then he stops. Deflates. Pats the top rung of the ladder. 

He’s yelled enough tonight. 

“Come up.”

Harley springs to his feet and climbs up so quick Johnny has to jerk back so their heads don’t bonk together. They stare at each other for a minute, and it’s one of those nights where their breaths steam even here in the insulated attic. 

“You know, there’s nothing wrong with being broken—”

“Harley, I’ll push you right back down the hole from whence you came, I swear to God.”

“No, I’m serious,” Harley says, wide-eyed and earnest. “I keep thinking about what you said, about how you’re not a machine, but you’re wrong. I mean, analogically speaking, so what if you are? If an engine needs a new spark plug or a camshaft or lubricant—”

“You think I need lubricant?”

“Shut the fuck up, you rat bastard. I’m trying to fucking level with you, okay? I’m trying to help you understand. You don’t just throw out the whole fucking car if it’s got bad parts, Johnny. You fix it.” 

“But I don’t _want_ you to fix me,” Johnny hisses, frustrated. “I don’t wanna be broken. I don’t want to be looked at like I’m the victim here, do you understand that? Everyone looks at me like I’ve got the emotional equivalent of a dick drawn on my forehead and I’m so _sick of it._ I don’t need you to wash my plates for me or lube my piston.”

Harley starts laughing, and his laugh is so dumb that Johnny forgets to be mad. Instead he laughs, too. 

“Has it ever occurred to you that I’d do those things anyway?”

Johnny’s breath catches. It takes him a second to process what Harley just said. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Harley climbs into the attic all the way and kicks the hatch closed, “maybe you’re the one looking at yourself like you’ve got a dick on your forehead, Johnny. Maybe I just like helping people.”

“Maybe you like finding problems where they don’t exist.”

“Are you happy, Johnny?”

The question takes him by surprise. “What?”

“Are you happy?” Harley repeats, slower now. 

“I... I don’t know.”

“Then I’ve got something to fix.”

Johnny’s mouth parts, and his chest, God, his chest caves in like a dying star. Like he’s going nova in reverse: fire pouring into him instead of exploding out, fireworks and waves and ash. He stands up shakily and before he can stop himself, before he can second guess, he wraps his arms around Harley and hugs him. 

He hadn’t realised how badly he’d wanted to do this, how much he’d been yearning for it. It’s fulfillment to the nth degree. 

Harley holds him back and it’s the biggest relief. His bones sigh; his stomach settles. He closes his eyes and tucks his head under Harley’s chin and stays there—where it’s safe and warm. 

Harley does the thing with his thumb against Johnny’s neck again. It gives Johnny goosebumps. He shivers. 

“Cold?” Harley asks, because of course he’s that oblivious. 

Johnny wants to scream it: _no, I’m warm, I’m so warm, I forgot what it felt like to be on fire._

But he nods instead. 

Harley takes Johnny by the wrist and leads him over to the bed. He hadn’t made it that morning, so Harley just jerks the blankets back and crawls under. Johnny, kind of stunned, scampers over him and does the same. 

It doesn’t feel right. Something is off. 

Johnny flops onto his side to face Harley. It’s a little better. He reaches out and grabs a fistful of the old, ugly sweater Harley’s wearing—the one he probably bought at that thrift store on the edge of town. It looks like it came straight out of an 80s Christmas party. It’s fucking terrible. 

Johnny loves it. 

“You don’t have to tell me how you feel if you don’t want to,” Harley whispers after a minute, “I just... I don’t want you to be all alone up here.”

He raps his knuckles against Johnny’s temple. 

Instead of making him smile, it makes Johnny’s lower lip quiver. 

Reed used to do that. As if tonight hasn’t been full enough—hasn’t ripped grafts of his skin off his muscles and stripped him bare to the bone. 

“Johnny?”

Harley pushes himself up to hover over Johnny because he’s crying again, God, he’s such a goddamn baby—but also, holy fucking _shit_ , this is _it._

There is a Rightness to the way they’re positioned now. It tugs at Johnny’s stomach while his tears steam on his cheeks and his eyes burn. 

He’s blushing. 

He’s _hot._

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Johnny croaks, shaking his head. He tries to force a smile. 

Harley doesn’t buy it because like, while he’s oblivious as all hell, he’s not an idiot. He reaches down and gently swipes at Johnny’s cheek. “Please don’t keep me in the dark? I just wanna help.”

And God, Johnny’s scared. He doesn’t know why it’s so hard with Harley. He doesn’t know why he’s so desperate to prove that he’s not weak, not in constant need of help. They’re fucking seventeen, he’s not a baby. 

“Just...” he sucks in a deep breath and then reaches, pulling Harley down with both arms to smush him against his chest. Harley _oomfs._ “Just be here.”

“Okay,” Harley whispers. “Healing with osmosis, I can do that.”

It makes Johnny laugh. He squeezes tighter, mustering enough courage to thread his fingers through the curls at the base of Harley’s neck. 

Harley shivers. 

It’s not at all from the cold and they both know it.

* * *

“I have a proposition for you.”

Harley closes his eyes for a brief second, mentally calling upon the heavens for mercy, and then grunts, “What would that be?”

“Well remember how you were bemoaning to me the other day about your great dilemma?” asks Tony. 

“I do,” Harley says, setting his pitchfork against the wall and plopping down heavily on a bail of hay. He rips his hat off his head because he feels too hot, suddenly. “I also remember that we agreed I was gonna figure something else out because I refuse to accept your money. What of it?”

“Well,” Tony says slowly, “I had the idea—okay, no, Pep had the idea—that maybe you could repay me in some other way.”

Harley pinches the bridge of his nose. “And what way would that be?”

“Are you familiar with the annual Stark New Year’s Charity Gala?”

Harley’s stomach drops out of his ass. He can literally feel his soul deflating like an old balloon. God, fuck, this is gonna suck some serious cow teat.

* * *

“What’s your favorite bird?” Johnny asks, bumping his shoulder into Harley’s upper arm. 

Harley hums thoughtfully. That’s the thing about Harley: he answers stupid questions like they’re actually important. It drives Johnny absolutely buckwild. 

“I don’t mind an emu. They’re so goddamn silly. What about you?”

“Tits,” Johnny says immediately. 

When Harley laughs his head falls backwards. He grabs a fistful of Johnny’s jacket and pulls them both to a stop in the middle of the street. 

They’re walking in the middle of unshoveled snow. The drifts are nearly up to their knees. It’s just the two of them and the occasional escapee cow, and the air is so still that Harley’s dumbass cackle echoes down the dirt road. 

Harley wipes his gloved hand under his nose, still busting up. “That’s funny. I distinctly remember you talking about swallows a few days ago.”

“A little male swallow I don’t mind,” Johnny affirms, watching Harley hunch over his knees. 

“That’s _fowl,”_ Harley wheezes. 

“Oh, Christ on a cold brew, you ruined it. I’m not making any more bird-themed innuendos. You have _completely_ pooed on my mood.”

“Johnny—my dear, darling Johnny, how can I ever fix it?” 

Johnny turns away from him snootily. 

“Aw Jay, c’mon. Hey, sweet-ass, _please?”_

Johnny deigns to. Harley’s pulling out all his best nick-names, after all; the ones that melt Johnny right from the center. Johnny probably would’ve caved a _Hot Head,_ or even a _JayJay_ —which is new and had slipped out of Harley’s mouth in a delirious, exhausted mumble only a few nights ago.

But _darling? Sweet-ass?_ Hoo boy, Johnny is willing to do more than just talk to him for that. 

Harley smiles and straightens, shoving a hand in his pocket. “I fix.” He grins goofily, all teeth and dimples. 

Johnny stares him up and down, pretending to think hard. “I mean, my legs _are_ sorta tired from all this terribly exhausting walking…”

He gives Harley a look. 

Harley points at his own chest like _Who, me?_

Johnny raises an eyebrow in return. 

Harley says, “One piggy-back ride coming right up, your great stinkyness!”

Johnny grins something big and clambers onto Harley’s back, grabbing handfuls of his jacket and latching his ankles around his best friend’s hips. 

His best friend. When the fuck did that happen? 

Johnny doesn’t stop to think about it. He hooks his chin over Harley’s shoulder and sneakily breathes a little on Harley’s ear just to watch him shiver. He’s pretty satisfied with the results. 

The smugness only lasts for a second, as Harley pulls his hand out of his pocket to reveal a handful of crisp snow—which he promptly smushes right onto the back of Johnny’s neck. 

Johnny squawks in utter _lamentation_ and careens his weight forward so that he and Harley tumble into the thick bank below. In the words of the one and only Kesha: _Timber!_

It’s wet everywhere: down Johnny’s jacket, curling his hair, freezing the ass of his pants, making pools of his poor fucking _socks._ Frost clings to Harley’s lashes and makes his cheeks look shiny. 

“I’m going to cut your ears off,” Johnny proclaims very seriously. 

Harley claps his hands over them. “Not my best feature!”

“Please,” Johnny scoffs. “They make you look like a fucking imp.” 

Harley gasps with affront. “How dare you? I’m calling the police?” 

Johnny is not at all threatened. The town authorities consist of one dude who was elected sheriff like, forty years ago. The guy is blind in one eye and missing most of his teeth. “Excuse me while I shake in my boots,” he says dryly. 

Then he shoves himself to his feet and offers a hand to Harley. 

It’s a mistake. Harley takes it and yanks him right back down into the snow. 

They land in a heap of fluff and wool, knees and elbows. Johnny bonks his head against Harley’s chest, but Harley’s laughing and that makes the pain worth it. 

Johnny pushes himself up and considers Harley, with his gleaming amber eyes and big bushy eyebrows _ridiculous elvish ears._ “Hey,” Johnny says cheekily. 

Harley sighs. “Somehow we keep ending up here. What a darn tootin’ shame.” 

Johnny’s so damn donezo it’s actually ludicrous. “We do.” 

Harley lifts a mittened hand and clumsily pokes at Johnny’s cheek. 

Johnny’s nose scrunches up. “What?” 

“Freckles,” Harley whispers back. He smells like sugary coffee and gingerbread. “They’re real pretty.”

“ _Ugh._ ”

“No, I’m serious.” A beat. “Sorta seems like I like all the things you _don’t_ like about yourself, huh?”

Johnny doesn’t know what to say to that, because while there are a lot of things about himself to admire (his cheekbones, his hair when he blows it out, his glorious six pack), none of those features are ever what seem to catch Harley’s eye. It’s the weird shit—the things Johnny’s always considered to be flaws. 

Harley pokes Johnny’s freckles again, squinting to see them better because he left his damn glasses at the house. His lips move soundlessly and Johnny realises that he’s _counting_ them. 

He’ll be doing that for a while; they’re scattered all along the bridge of his nose and over the curves of his cheeks. He even has a few on his shoulders and back—which, of course, he only knows because of the flippant way photographers let him know they’re editing them out. 

Johnny never used to blame them for it, but now… 

Johnny thinks it’s the first time in his life he hasn’t hated every last one. In fact, he’s more than grateful for them, if it means Harley will keep looking at him like this. 

A little revering and maybe— _God—_ maybe a little bit awed. 

Harley’s lips are a little chapped, like always, though Johnny can see and smell the perpetual layer of vanilla chapstick smeared all over them. 

He would very much like to grab him by the chin and taste it. 

Just like this: their bodies aligned, Harley’s skin under his, heat blooming in Johnny’s chest.

Harley’s eyes flick surreptitiously up from Johnny’s nose to meet his gaze, and they stay there. They’re almost slate gray with the reflection of the snow in them. 

Johnny sighs. He lowers onto his elbows, freeing a hand. He lifts it and tugs at the mouth of Harley’s turtleneck halfheartedly. Lets his thumb knock the hinge of Harley’s jaw once and then twice before he meets his eyes again. 

That’s when the tuck of his scarf comes loose and all but smothers Harley. Johnny catches on to the oncoming full-body flinch at the last second and rolls off just as Harley sneezes, all loud and aggressive and completely dramatic, knees pulling up to his chest and arms spasming. 

Johnny snorts and laughs and feels stupidly relieved because something about this—the moment—just still isn’t right. 

Johnny’s back sighs against the slush, nearly hitting the grass for the way they’d flattened out the snow with their weight. The tips of his ears are freezing. Johnny thinks, _fuck it._

He tosses his arms and legs out and starts on a snow angel. 

“Oh, good idea,” Harley says, and then he’s making his own. 

They move in silence. It’s just the scraping of their jackets and pants against the bed of white powder, their breathing, their heartbeats. Johnny thinks it might be the closest he’s ever felt to Harley without touching him. 

Then Harley does that thing where he pops up like a Jack-in-the-Box on crack, sitting and then standing so quick it’s a miracle he doesn’t fall right back down and break his head. “We oughta start heading home. I still have to feed the sheepies.”

Johnny looks up eagerly. “Can I come with you?”

Harley’s face splits when he smiles—fireworks in the night sky and blackberry juice bursting and the crack of a baseball bat against the ball. He’s summer personified—thick orange peels tossed in the grass and birds shouting their song from the treetops—but somehow still looks like he belongs in the middle of all this grey slush. Like he changes right along with the seasons—makes himself fit into whatever situation he’s given. Makes it work. 

“Abso-fuckin’-fruitley, A-Hole,” Harley says, kicking Johnny’s knee a little. “That would be very good, most perfection.”

“Very good,” Johnny parrots. “Most perfection.” 

Harley stares for another moment, head cocked and grinning, before he holds his arms out awkwardly to his sides like he’s squaring up for something to plow into him. 

“What is this, charades?” asks Johnny, starting to smile. “I’ll guess: Gumby? Unidentified orangutan from the wild! Dwayne Johnson as _The Tooth Fairy?”_

Harley rolls his eyes. “No, dummy. Climb on.”

Johnny feels something spark and pop in his chest, like burning orange embers. “I still get my piggy back ride?”

“Well, I sabotaged the last one. You’re just getting what you’re due.”

“Oh, _hell yeah.”_

This time Harley’s hands grip at the undersides of Johnny’s thighs, strong and sure and very close to his butt. _Nice._ Johnny kicks up his warmth and Harley’s body eases. He rubs his thumb along the seam of Johnny’s jeans in thanks. 

It’s a wonderful thank you. Johnny wants _all_ of his thank yous to be like this. 

He especially wants to keep doing things Harley feels the need to thank him for. 

Johnny loops his arms around Harley’s neck and rests his cheek against his sleeve so he can watch the side of Harley’s face as Harley walks them back. 

He’s so damn pretty, especially in the late afternoon light. It turns him golden, gilded. He’s the stuff of ancient statues and myths; heroes and demigods and all that shit. 

He looks like he should be in laurels, like his blood is ichor, like glory should be waiting on him hand and foot. 

Johnny wants in on all of it. 

And to earn that? Well, he’d do just about anything for Harley Keener. 

* * *

Harley hopes it’s not obvious that he has anything planned. 

On Christmas morning, he’s woken up by not only Pop jumping on his bed, but Johnny too. “Sweet Lord have mercy upon me,” Harley groans, rolling over and covering his head with a pillow. 

Johnny yanks it away and burrows right up next to him like an overeager gopher. He smells like toothpaste because he’s the most put together person in this house. Even his pajamas are aesthetically pleasing, which he had explained to Harley was absolutely necessary in case anyone decided to take candid photos. 

Mama always does. She keeps a few disposable cameras in the kitchen drawer above the trash bin and gets the film developed at the RX a few miles down the road. 

“It’s Christmas, bitch,” Johnny says, yanking Harley’s hair a little. “Get the fuck up!”

“No,” Harley groans into his mattress. “Five more minutes.”

Five, God, it’s all he asks. Is it too much? After all he does for them, is five minutes truly too great a—

Poppy pulls his blankets all off. Harley dinosaur screeches in response, lunging for them but failing to get a grip before she dances out of the way. Harley is left there in his sweats, shivering, nothing to shield him from the chill in the air. 

“It’s still dark outside!” he realises. “What the fuck time is it?!”

“Four,” Poppy answers happily. “Now get up! I’m making peppermint mochas.”

And that does it: Poppy makes a mean Starbucks knock off. Harley’s pretty sure they could bust themselves out of this joint if she started advertising them to the townsfolk; they could drive right up to the kitchen window to get their drinks. 

Johnny pokes Harley right under his ribs. It gets him to yelp a bit. “Hey,” he says softly, “Merry Christmas, you stupid hick.”

Harley’s lip quirks up against his will. “Merry Christmas, Jay.”

Then, in one swift movement, he leans over and blows a raspberry against Johnny’s stomach—and notes, privately, how hard the muscles there are. Johnny squawks but the damage is done: Harley is already hauling ass down the hallway. 

He stops dead at the base of the stairwell because wow: everything is all lit up, the fireplace is already roaring, there are presents under the tree and the air smells like gingerbread. It’s the same every year, but for some reason it always takes Harley by surprise. Johnny hurtles into his back but grabs onto Harley’s shirt to keep him from falling over. 

“Merry Christmas, boys,” Mama says from her chair by the tree. She’s got a book open in her lap and probably didn’t sleep at all because she was too busy making everything perfect for them. 

Harley doesn’t hesitate: he goes over and kisses her cheek. Johnny follows after him and does the same thing, albeit a little bit more awkwardly. He’s blushing all the while. 

“Stockings!” Harley says, snatching his off the hook. 

“Don’t eat a bunch of sugar before you have breakfast,” his mom warns, dog-earing her book and then closing it. “I’m making pancakes.” 

“Oh, yet more sugar?” 

“Shut your trap, Harley, or you don’t get anything.”

Harley’s grinning and then he’s not, because that’s right around when he realises that Johnny is standing there holding his own stocking, staring down at it with a mix of confusion and abject wonder. 

“It’s got my name on it,” he says softly. 

“Yeah.” Harley embroidered it himself. “It’s yours.”

_It,_ as in, not just the stocking. _It_ as in the house, the barn, the fourth chair at the table, the far left seat on the couch where he sits most nights, the sheep.

_Harley._

Johnny hugs the velvet sock to his chest for a second and then opens it, lowering himself to the floor so he can properly inspect the goods inside. Harley does the same, and they spend a few minutes trading—turns out Johnny actually hates anything with peanut butter, so he gives Harley all of those in exchange for his Hershey bell chocolates. What a fucking fool. 

When Poppy’s done making the coffee, they start unwrapping gifts. Harley’s haul slaps: a new amp from Tony, sketchbooks and acrylics from MJ, a bunch of sage from Wanda, and the most ridiculous shirt from Poppy: it’s white and worn like she ordered it off Depop or something, but the image of Shakespeare flashing a peace sign is still clear, along with the words _Let’s get Literature!_

“Wow, Pop,” Harley says, holding it up to take it all in. “I might fucking cry, no cap.”

She grins. “Figured it’d be up your alley.”

It is. Harley carefully folds it and adds it to his pile. They go clockwise in the Keener house, which means Pop is next. She unboxes a set of records, probably from MJ and Wanda both. Harley takes a short video of her chef’s kissing and drops it in their group chat. 

Harley saves his best gift, the one from Johnny, for last. 

For some reason he has the strangest urge to open it alone, but when he unwraps it, the only thing he finds is a thin leather chain—almost like an unclasped bracelet. 

“It’s for your glasses,” Johnny blurts, cheeks pink. “As previously discussed, fancy man.”

Harley stares down at it and then gingerly lifts it out of the box. His throat feels thick. “I love it,” he whispers. “I don’t even care that I’m gonna look like a fuckin’ librarian. It’s perfect.”

Johnny seems to relax at that, like he’d been anxious about it or something (as if anything could possibly be wrong with this gift, as if Harley could possibly be disappointed when he finally has everything he needs). “Really? It’s not too little? Because I can buy you something else, I just thought you might like something handmade or—”

“Shut up, Storm,” Harley says, already attaching his glasses to the ends, “it’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten—no offense, y’all,” he says to Poppy and his mother, who roll their eyes. 

Then Pop says, “Wait a sec, Harls. Where’s Johnny’s gift from you?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Harley shoots to his feet and grabs Johnny by the wrist, pulling him along. “Grab a jacket, it’s nipply out.”

* * *

He tells Johnny to close his eyes as he works open the old garage doors—the same one Tony broke into all those years ago—and then says, “Okay.”

Johnny cracks an eye. Then his lips part. He looks from the beat up truck to Harley and back again. “It’s a piece of shit.”

There’s no denying that: the damn thing is covered in bits of rust, it’s missing a wheel, and the engine is busted. It needs a lot of work. 

“I know, I know,” Harley says, “that’s kind of the point. Think of it as a materialisation of my metaphor, if you will. We’re gonna fix it up together.”

Johnny starts to grin. He walks deeper inside the garage and runs his hand along the wall of the truck bed. “Jesus, how much did this cost? I thought the limit was fifty, Keener.”

Harley shrugs. “An anonymous donor pitched in.”

“Anonymous as in Tony Stark?”

Harley clicks his tongue. “Unfortunately. He had some terms and conditions, but nothing too serious.” 

_Besides,_ Harley thinks, _this is worth it._

* * *

Hours later, after they’ve eaten dinner and spent a fair few hours fiddling with the truck, it starts to snow. The sky grows dark and stays that way, and Harley doesn’t mind much. He’s always been a bit of a Hobbit that way: being comfortable in closed spaces is the best way to exist. 

Poppy makes them watch old Disney Channel Christmas specials. When they run out of those, they just watch anything Disney that remotely relates to the holidays. She falls asleep halfway through High School Musical with her head in Harley’s lap. 

“Harley?”

He looks up and there’s Johnny, sitting cross legged by the Christmas tree in the too-big sweater that Mama made for him. It’s funny, because he should look darker against the backdrop of all those twinkle lights, but they only illuminate him. It’s like he’s soaking up all that gold, or maybe they’re taking it from him. 

“Yeah, Jay?”

Johnny scoots closer. He bites his lip. “Thank you.”

“For what? The truck?”

“No,” Johnny says. “Well yeah, but no. I meant for everything. For giving me something to... just thanks.”

Harley shrugs. “You don’t have to thank me.” 

“Oh my god, if you insist on washing my dishes for me, I have to insist on at least expressing my gratitude.” 

Harley grins and Johnny does too, and God, he could just about die from it. 

“Dick,” he mutters. 

Johnny tosses a ball of wrapping paper at Harley’s head. “Prick.”

Fuck if he isn’t a goner. 

* * *

Falling, Harley hopes, is inevitable. 

It’s always been that way for him. He wonders if that’s how it feels for everyone: an eternal yanking near his navel tugging down and down; shooting stars and comets, from the point of Orion’s bow to down into the dirt. 

Even though the ground under his feet is miles of thick, steady loam, country mirth holding him upright, he stumbles—like the earth’s core is constantly pulling him closer, desperate and voracious; his roots dig so deep they can’t help but grapple with the dirt. 

He’s all knees—a slapdash arrangement of bird-thin angles so unfortunate that he can’t keep the wind under his wings for long. He lifts off but knows where he belongs: among the dandelions and the ladybugs. 

He sees glass and he thinks _Too slight._ Sees crystal, thinks _It’s dastardly—killer._ Sharp, elegant edges throwing rainbows on the wall when the sun shines and slicing skin under the silver moon. 

He sees flames eating at his periphery and _God,_ nothing is more fleeting—more graceful, more lovely, more _mortal—_ than fire. Harley’s breath alone, always too clumsy, could snuff it out. 

And what would he do without the flames, without the heat? How can he survive without something to warm his hands against, turn his cheek into?

He would freeze straight down to his bones, blood like slush, marrow like chipped ice. 

Now, fire he’d fall into wholeheartedly. Utterly unrepentant, he wants the warmth to swallow him whole and hold him by its heart. He’d never be safer, more loved, than with embers spitting around him. 

He pictures the way the flames writhe, the way they dance in time; feels the swoop in his stomach before he hits the hardwood, and thinks, _I hope it’s inevitable to fall._

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BLEASE LET US KNOW UR THOUGHTS + EMOTIONS!!


	3. JANUARY

  
“The light of my life, the lamp of my soul, the first leaf that falls from my tree in autumn. The Pacific Ocean that tries to eat me when I’m surfing, the funky sun rays that break through clouds like heavenly beams of mercy—” 

_“Hi,”_ Jean cuts in dryly while Harley, from his lounged position on Johnny’s bed, says derisively, “And they call _me_ the poet.”

“My darling Miss Jeanie,” Johnny continues, staunchly ignoring Harley (as everyone should do all the time for the sake of their mental, physical, and legal well-being). “How are you on this fine—Wednesday? What day of the week is it?” Then, conspiratorially, “Time passes differently here. The light scatters strangely. It’s all just one never ending day that keeps repeating itself, like that shitty movie with Bill Murray. My only companionship comes in the form of a real live hick and a small squadron of his personal backup dancers—by which I mean his sheep, of course. He treats them as his personal minions.”

_“Like those yellow tic tacs in that one movie?”_ Jean asks. She’s eating something—probably the soft insides of the rolls in the shop. She’s quirky like that. 

“Like those yellow tic tacs in that one movie that then got their own series of hellish sequel and prequel movies, yes,” Johnny affirms. “Exactly like that. Equally annoying, evil, and popular with middle-aged moms on Facebook.”

_“Sounds like hell on earth for a city-slicker like you, honey.”_

Johnny wrinkles his nose, scuffing his sock against the hardwood as he paces. He can never stand still while talking on the phone. “It smells like mud and wool all the time,” he whines. “It’s always weirdly damp. A great day is one where I don’t step in cow shit. I’ve never owned this many flannel pieces in my life.”

_“And exactly how many flannel pieces do you own now, oh tortured soul?”_

“Two,” Johnny whispers, horrified and fractured. “The idea of anyone needing _one_ flannel, much less _two?_ Disgusting. Entirely unethical.”

_“You’re not even that far south. Is it really so hicksville or are you just appalled by everything that comes from nature so it seems more foreign than it is?”_

Johnny sneaks a look at Harley, who is now curled with his knees against his chest. He’s got one of Johnny’s pillows in his arms and his face is smooshed against it, lips parted and eyes shut. His cheeks are a little pink. He looks so peaceful. 

Ugh, _gross._

Johnny rips his attention away from Harley with a truly Herculean amount of effort and returns to his phone call. “The second one,” he says. “It’s like, so quiet here. Have you ever been outside the city, Jeanie?”

_“No baby, I haven’t.”_ Johnny hears her swallow her bread thickly. _“Been here my whole life and I don’t plan on leaving now. Besides, I could never abandon my illustrious career. What about my adoring public? Who else can serenade a BLT wrap the way I can with my fantastic falsetto?”_

Johnny snorts. “I thought I’d be the same way, except for like, vacations to California and—y’know, space. But…” Johnny stops pacing and grabs his own elbow in an effort to weigh himself down, “there’s something about it all. The quiet, and the—the stillness. It’s so slow all the time. And fast is my _thing,_ I’m all about fast. Cars and flying and racing with—um, with Spider-Man. But _Jean,_ ” he finds he’s smiling just a little, “Jeanie, the _stars._ Have you ever seen them? Like really, _really_ seen them? Without all the buildings and smog in the way?”

_“I can’t say that I have,”_ she says, delightfully aloof and proud as ever. She’s so weird. Johnny wonders what the legal process is to adopt an adult. _“Maybe at the planetarium as a kid.”_

“Nah, that’s nothing compared to _really_ seeing ’em.” Johnny spins around on his socked foot. They’re actually Harley’s socks; big wool ones that Johnny snatched because Harley’s been stealing _his_ for weeks. The worst part is Johnny can’t even get mad at him for it because when he returns them, they’re always folded so darn nicely. “I’ve seen them all up close and personal and even _that_ is nothing like seeing them here, from the ground and all. It’s really something else.”

_“Describe it to me,”_ Jean requests, trading her characteristic showmanship in favor of something almost soft. 

“It’s like, uh… Cheerios in milk,” he decides quietly, sitting cross-legged on the ground and running a fingernail over the seam of his jeans. “Only the milk is black. Actually that’s disgusting, forget I said it. It’s more like snow at midnight. You know the way the flakes catch the light from the street lamps and stuff? Or the way the windows in the skyscrapers glow during the nighttime, but picture smaller windows and sideways buildings. When it’s really clear it’s like the sky is _bending,_ it’s so big. It feels like it’s gonna fall right on top of you and just—” he cuts himself off, thinking of Sue and Reed and the kids, scattered, winking down at him through the skylight at three in the morning when night is vast and his brain is rattling, “—swallow you up.”

_“Wow. Sounds beautiful.”_

“Yeah,” Johnny breathes. “Jeanie. Jean, I miss you.” 

_I miss the way things were,_ he doesn’t say. 

_“Aw baby, I miss you too.”_

Johnny cradles his phone against his cheek until it feels like a hug from her: tobacco stink and spicy perfume and honey mustard on her apron. He remembers. 

“Do you wanna see me when I come visit? I’m coming for New Year’s.”

_“Only if I get to meet the boy,”_ Jean replies immediately, to which Johnny groans and flops backwards onto the floor. _“Well, you never shut up about him. Only seems right I get to see what the hell he looks like.”_

“I can just send you pictures,” he suggests. “He’s gonna mortify me and _you’re_ gonna judge me.”

_“Perfect,”_ Jean agrees evilly. She takes another bite of bread and continues around it, _“Oh, I’m cheesed. This is gonna be fun.”_

“I can link you to his TikTok instead,” Johnny barters desperately. “There’s lots of him there. The animals, too. You really don’t want to meet him. He always smells like hay and cat hair and he curses like a trucker and his fashion sense is comprised entirely of varying shades of brown.”

Harley looks up from the bed. “You talking about me?” he asks blearily. His hair is flat on his forehead and his glasses are gone; sweet with sleep, knuckling his eye. Johnny’s heart beats double-time and then makes an attempt at climbing up his throat, probably to present itself to Harley as a tribute of his admiration. 

“Yes,” Johnny says. 

_“Huh?”_

“Not you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, _you._ Geez, just—Jeanie, lady of my heart, I must be off. Stay warm and safe. Don’t smoke so much. Balance your bread intake with vegetables and yoga.”

Jean snorts. _“Okay, Mother. Love you bunches. Text me when you’re back and we’ll work something out, m’kay?”_

“Absolutely,” Johnny smacks a noisy kiss into the receiver and then hangs up. 

He looks over to Harley, who’s still waiting expectantly. He pats the spot beside him on the mattress. 

Johnny feels his chest warm like he’s made of glass and the sun is shining through. He could cast a rainbow. He’s a pathetic little gay prism boy. 

Eagerly he clambers up and wedges himself against Harley’s side. Harley drops his big stupid head on Johnny’s chest and sinks against him. “She wants to meet you,” Johnny admits softly, a little wonderingly. 

“’Course she does, I’m a goddamn celebrity, a fuckin’ delight. I’m like a sunflower but at the peak of spring. A May sunflower,” he decides, while Johnny absently traces his spine. 

He can’t stop watching the way Harley’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek when he blinks. 

“You’re seaweed,” Johnny tells him. “Salty and slimy. The absolute worst.”

Harley lifts his head to glare at him. Johnny grins in response. “I’m kidding, I promise.” 

“Good,” Harley sniffs haughtily and returns his head to its spot on Johnny’s chest. He grabs a handful of Johnny’s sweatshirt in his palm and tugs lightly. 

“What?” asks Johnny, and Harley shrugs in a kind of bashful way that really isn’t like him. “Seriously, what is it? What do you want?”

Harley shrugs again and noses closer to Johnny, lips curling up at the corners. Johnny can feel the warmth of his breathing, the heat his blood carries and that his muscles burn. It’s in his hands, too. 

Johnny isn’t even cold but he aches to hold them. He craves the warmth— _Harley’s_ warmth. He wants to swallow it up, wants to hold the fire with his own two hands. Like trading, like sharing; like they’ve both got a little bit of the other. 

He could spin entire tapestries with these feelings, plant orchards, build docks that cross oceans shore to shore. 

Johnny moves his hand from Harley’s back to rest against his pulse point: skin on skin. Harley’s curls tickle his fingers. It’s like electric shocks in every digit. 

Harley wriggles a little more and then relaxes, so Johnny lets his fingers drag against the rungs of Harley’s spine, his hand fisting and flattening over and over; repetitive, soft motions that lull Harley to sleep in minutes. 

Johnny, with his arms full of so much love it could bury him, keeps careful watch. 

* * *

**jean o'hare**

when you Said the sheep were 

his backup dancers i didn’t Believe

you but i Just checked his tickytocky 

and they’re his Literal backup 

dancers

what the hell is he Doing in This 

Video? [link]

**tikitorch**

being a dumbass!!

he’s convinced the cow likes being

in the videos. he’s teaching her 

the renegade dance. i’m ashamed to

know him. 

**jean o'hare**

huh

you sure know how to Pick them

**tikitorch**

i never claimed to have good

taste, jeanie bean

**jean o'hare**

you’re in this One! hi! [link]

**tikitorch**

against my will, as you can tell by

my SHRIEK when the camera points

@ me

i can’t believe he had the nerve to

put me on his account while wearing

SWEATPANTS and BOOTS. i still

have not forgiven him. i may never

forgive him. 

**jean o'hare**

you’ll forgive him, drama Queen. next 

time He makes Eyes at you i’m

sure i’ll be hearing Aaaaallll about it

[link] wow, so many Comments! how Do i

comment? i Want to comment

**tikitorch**

i’m begging you not to, actually 

like seriously please don’t 

for my sake

harley will never let it go

**jean o'hare**

perfect i Figured it out Myself since

you’re No help

**tikitorch**

you’re an instigator

and a bad lady :^(

**jean o'hare**

who’s that with the Nose? cute! i 

Like Him!

**tikitorch**

oh my god 

i’m blocking your number 

**jean o'hare**

no you’re not

**tikitorch**

no i’m not

* * *

If leaving New York to come to Rose Hill felt like backwards Cinderella, returning feels like Aurora waking up from her coma to find herself in a castle; wrapped up in finery, Prince Charming staring down at her full of expectation. 

The plane ride is largely boring. Harley and Johnny share a pair of headphones and watch _Big Hero Six_ on a loop until Harley konks out.

He snores a little. Some people look. Johnny ignores them because he’s not sorry. He’s not even embarrassed by it, which is new for him. The Johnny before Rose Hill would’ve shoved Harley right off the seat and probably lit his eyebrows on fire for good measure. 

Instead, Harley’s snores bring him a strange sense of peace. They set his bones at ease, and he _needs_ that ease now more than ever. 

Johnny has three cups of Sprite, has to shimmy out of his seat twice to use the restroom, and taps his fingers against the arm of his seat incessantly. He stares out the window for a while and then gets bored; bounces his knee and then stops. He kicks his shoes off and criss-crosses his legs; yanks on the neck of his sweater but quits that because he doesn’t wanna stretch it. It’s _cashmere_ after all. 

He tries pausing the movie, but immediately restarts it because the silence is infinitely worse. It pulses between the walls of his skull like the swell of an ocean during a storm. 

He’s not scared of flying. 

He’s been doing it since the age of sixteen, spaceship or no spaceship. The wind in his ears, the pinprick people down below—it’s more familiar to him than almost anything else. 

It’s just… 

Being in the air makes him feel kind of trapped now. He’s closer than ever to Sue and Reed and the kids, but he can’t do jack shit about it. 

He wishes he could say something to them. Absolutely anything would do, but he’d give his left nut to tell them he loves them. Every fiber of his body aches because they’re gone. He misses them in phantom pains and invisible bruises. 

Johnny turns his stinging eyes to the window and watches the sherbert-tinted clouds drift across the sky.

Harley, with his fingers looped loosely around Johnny’s wrist, is undoubtedly the only thing keeping him inside. 

* * *

Johnny has a key to Peter’s apartment. 

Don’t ask him why, he can’t explain it. All he knows is that one time he’d trudged out to the old rusty mailbox at the end of the Keener driveway and inside had been a letter from Peter. 

Well, not a letter _per se—_ just the key and a note that’d said: _You’ve got a home with me too, in case you ever need it._

Johnny can’t imagine ever leaving Rose Hill at this point; the sheep, the coffee stained couch, the perpetual smell of apple spice candles and laundry detergent—even that fucking rooster that crows at the ass crack of dawn every morning—they’ve all wormed their way into his heart and frankly, he doesn’t mind.

Still, it’s nice to walk into Peter’s apartment like he owns the place, like he never even left New York. It’s nice to take in the tiny open floor plan and the shoes all discarded by the door and see them, The Boys, lounging around the living room eating from take out cartons. 

“ _Heeeeere’s Johnny!”_ he says, popping around the corner. 

Peter literally hops out of his chair. “My boy!” 

Then he’s lunging for Johnny—they all are, actually, grabbing at the sleeves of his sweatshirt and the belt loops on his jeans to pull him close, like he’s some kind of celebrity at a rock concert or something. Johnny is yanked onto the couch. He lets himself be absorbed into the dogpile, wrapping his arms around someone’s torso and resting his head on someone else’s knee. “Say hi to Harley, too.”

“Harley!” Peter yelps. “What the hell are you doing over there?!” 

No further explanation is needed beyond the flash of Harley’s camera. “Fuckin’ assholes,” he says, shaking the Polaroid. “Can’t even do me the courtesy of a howdy.”

“Howdy,” Wanda returns dryly.

He shakes his head and sniffs pettily. “Too late.” 

“What are you both doing here?” Ned demands excitedly. “I thought we weren’t seeing you guys until spring break at least!”

“Didn’t Tony tell you?” Harley asks as he saunters over, and fuck he looks really hot in those jeans. Farm boy looks good on him, but city boy—darker clothes, that thrifted leather jacket—looks _real_ good. 

“Tell us what?” MJ asks, snatching the picture to squint at it. 

“We’ve been informed there’s gonna be a party,” Johnny says. He leans up to peer over her shoulder. “That’s a terrible angle of me,” he snaps at Harley. “Look at how big my nose is!”

He shoves the picture at Harley, who smirks down at it and takes it to stow in his bag. 

“We weren’t actually gonna like, go to that thing,” Peter says, “but I mean, if you guys are...”

“I’m down to crash,” MJ pipes up. “Beats bagel bites and cold cider, anyway.”

“Hey, don’t diss bagel bites,” Peter says. “They’re the mini cupcakes of pizza, and everyone knows all food is better when it’s in tiny bite-sized portions. Why else do rich people pay thousands for like, a salmon roll covered in A1 sauce?”

Johnny laughs at that. “Sue used to beg Reed to take her out for dinners like that. I never understood it.”

Peter’s eyes lock onto him at that, searching. He asks a silent _are you okay?_ and Johnny replies by squeezing his wrist. There’s a beaded bracelet around it courtesy of Wanda; she’d made one for each of them and attached charms supposedly loaded with good energy. She’d even sent one to Poppy, who had flipped her absolute shit and demanded Wanda’s number so that they could ‘confer’ with each other. 

Harley sets his bag down on the chair in the corner and then plops down next to Ned. “What the hell are y’all watching?”

“The Bachelor,” MJ says. “It’s fantastic.”

“Like, absolutely horrendous,” Wanda adds, “but fantastic, too.”

“Amy cornered Chris in a closet and tried to jump his bones, but he rejected her because he’s in love with Yvette. But _Yvette_ thinks he doesn’t like her because the last time she made a move, he said the timing wasn’t right. Really he just didn’t wanna fuck around when she was drunk, but she doesn’t know that.”

Johnny absorbs all of this information like the reality-TV loving whore that he is and settles in. “Is there food?”

“Oreos,” Peter says. “Oh, and some cold Taco Bell we got earlier. I’ll heat some up for you.”

He rolls out from under them and goes to fumble around the kitchen, while Johnny burrows to get more comfortable. Ned wraps an arm around his shoulders and Johnny kind of feels like crying, because he hadn’t realised how much he’d really _missed_ them all until now. It’s so fucking nice to feel normal again, to be huddled up in front of the TV like they just finished a study session, like he’ll be able to go back home to Sue and Reed in just a couple of hours. 

“What heathen ordered a black bean burrito?!” Peter demands, voice muffled. “Who are you trying to choke?!”

“Hey, those slap!” Harley shouts back. “Gimme!”

“Backwoods hick,” Peter mutters in reply. “Probably never even had a refried bean. Don’t even know what you’re missing. _Black beans,_ Jesus. Nature’s shittiest vegetable nugget.”

Johnny pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes wide. “Hey Pete?”

“Yeah, Jay?”

“What the fuck, man.”

Peter leans around the corner and wields the burrito like a pointer. “I know what I’m about, son,” he snaps, “and it’s not this garbage.”

Johnny eyerolls into the next universe. “I cannot believe you think that refried beans are superior to actual once-cooked beans. You have serious issues.”

Peter stands there in complete shock. Then he tilts his head and taps the burrito against his chin. “I’m unfriending you on Facebook,” he says eventually.

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” Johnny asks. “Because it’s not. It’s actually a compliment. The less friends I have on that hellsite the better.”

MJ shushes them. “Yvette is about to confess her love again!”

They all look at the TV, even Peter—but Johnny doesn’t. Johnny looks at Harley instead, and listens to Yvette stumbling over her words. “ _I-I think about you all the time. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. It’s like it’s in my blood, and I just feel so… God, you burn me up, you know?”_

_Yeah,_ Johnny thinks, heart skipping when Harley’s lip quirks up. _I know._

* * *

Wanda is half asleep with her head on MJ’s shoulder when the other girl’s phone starts blasting the Darth Vader theme song. MJ jerks awake and fumbles to answer it, nearly knocking Wanda’s laptop onto the floor in the process. 

Wanda uses her gifts to keep it from falling. She hovers it gently back onto the duvet while MJ answers the phone call. “Peter?”

“Emmie, hey, so I have something to tell you that you’re very much not gonna like.”

Wanda watches MJ narrow her eyes all suspicious-like. “And what would that be?”

“Pepper wants to take you dress shopping.”

“Pardon?” MJ asks. 

“Well, you and Wanda,” he corrects, and Wanda’s body literally spasms with excitement. She’s never been _dress shopping_ before. Sure, she and MJ have thrifted a few times, but that’s not the same. 

“I’m sorry, no,” MJ is saying, “tell her we politely decline. I would literally rather go in a Hefty bag, so thanks but no thanks—”

“ _Michelle,”_ Wanda snaps, “do _not_ blow this for us.”

MJ wrinkles her nose. “Excuse me? You actually _want_ to go?”

“How else are we going to get anything to wear?!”

“Um, we already own clothes,” she says, snapping the waistband of her sweats. They’re old and have holes in the seams. “See? We’ll just go in our PJs.” 

Wanda snatches the phone from her. “Peter, tell her we’ll be happy to accompany her.”

MJ rolls her eyes and groans into Wanda’s pillow, kicking her legs like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Peter is clearly grinning when he says, “She’ll send a car in an hour. Tell MJ I love her.”

“Will do,” Wanda says, and hangs up.

MJ peeks out from behind the flower-patterned pillowcase. “What did he say?”

“He said if you’re gonna go in a garbage bag, at least get the scented kind,” Wanda jokes. 

“ _Liar.”_

“MJ,” Wanda tugs one of her friend’s braids, “it’s gonna be _fun,_ okay? We’re going shopping with _Pepper Potts._ You _love_ Pepper Potts.”

“Yes, I know that,” MJ snaps, “which is why I _don’t_ wanna embarrass myself in front of her.”

“Why would you embarrass yourself?!”

“Because she’s intimidating!”

“ _You’re_ intimidating!”

MJ looks up hopefully. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” Wanda says, and then climbs over her to get off the bed. She yanks the blankets back. “Now get up loser, we’re going shopping!”

MJ scowls. “I rue the day I ever watched _Mean Girls_ with you.”

* * *

Pepper Potts pulls up to the townhouse in a limo—like, an actual real-life limousine. MJ has never been inside one before. In fact, she doesn’t think she’s ever even sat inside a car that still has a clean leather smell clinging to the seats. She feels ridiculously out of place sliding inside and stuffing her ratty backpack between her legs—all shiny animal skin rubbing against her unintentionally distressed camo pants. 

“Morning ladies,” Pepper greets. She’s wearing a white pantsuit so spotless and bright that it kind of hurts to look at. “I figure we should mostly stick to Fifth Avenue—we can work our way down: Saks, Prada for bags, Jimmy Choo shoes—”

“What?” MJ blurts, because for some stupid reason she hadn’t actually processed the fact that Pepper Potts, an actual millionaire, would want to buy them _real_ dresses; the kind celebrities wear on the red carpet, all glittery and extravagant and so, _so_ expensive. 

“Oh, did you want to go somewhere else for shoes?” Pepper asks innocently, and pulls out her phone. “What about Armani?”

MJ’s brain literally short circuits, so Wanda takes the opportunity to lean forward and say, “That sounds perfect.”

It does not, in fact, sound perfect. In fact it’s like the farthest thing from perfect MJ’s ever heard of. She swallows roughly while Wanda and Pepper start talking about high fashion brands and designers—all things MJ couldn’t give less of a shit about—and pulls her backpack to her chest just to have something from the real world to hold. 

It doesn’t take that long to get there because the rules of the road don’t apply to Harold Hogan, for whatever reason. To MJ’s surprise, May Parker is waiting for them, leaning against a town car of her own. She smiles brightly and hugs MJ first, which is like, amazing. May always smells like cinnamon and cloves. “Hey, cute stuff,” she says. “You look a little peaky, are you okay?”

“Huh? Oh, I’m fine,” MJ pulls away. “So you’re going to this thing, too?”

May rolls her eyes. “I’m Sam’s plus one,” she says. “It was a last minute invite, but Pepper is saving the day.”

Pepper shrugs. “I live to serve,” she says, shouldering her bag. “Come on ladies, let’s do this.”

* * *

They’re two hours in when MJ pretty much gives up. 

She flops face-down on one of the many white leather couches—and God, it’s probably _real_ leather, how disgusting is that?—and declares herself finished. 

“But you haven’t found _anything_ yet,” Wanda argues. She herself found a tasteful little red choker even though she still hasn’t come across the right dress. Pepper said she would buy it for her anyway because ‘everyone deserves nice things.’

“I don’t need anything,” MJ says, voice muffled against the pee-soaked cow skin. “I’ll go naked.”

“I mean, it would make a statement,” Wanda muses. 

MJ harrumphs. She hates this, truly. She and her mom have only ever shopped at like, Old Navy and Urban Outfitters. She doesn’t _do_ three-hundred dollar pumps or crocodile leather clutches. She is _not_ that girl. 

Does Peter expect her to be that girl? Would he rather she wear Chanel and Calvin Klein instead of the worn out baggy shirts she gets from Bayside Thrift? 

Not like it matters. She has no inclination to change herself for some _guy._ Her mama raised her better than that. 

But _still._ It’s irking her. This is _irksome._

“MJ,” Wanda says softly, and MJ hadn’t even registered her kneeling down to sit beside the couch, “what’s wrong?”

“Did you know that Dolce and Gabbana once posted a video to promote their runway of this Chinese model eating Italian foods with chopsticks—literally like, pizza with chopsticks—while some dude narrated about how the food was too big for her mouth? Like, how disgusting is that? And there was that thing when Gucci put turbans on white models? I mean, seriously, what the fuck. Not to mention how these brands raise animals, slaughter them, hack them into pieces and like, peel off their skin—sometimes while they’re still conscious—treat that skin with cancer-causing chemicals that harm people and the planet, and then transport the petrified animal to a factory. Then something that used to be a living being is turned into an item that these boujee assholes use for like _one outing_ and then stick on a shelf.”

Wanda stares with wide eyes. “Alright,” she says slowly, “I can see now why you weren’t particularly enthused to come here.”

“Thank you,” MJ says. 

“So what do you want to do? I mean, it’s not like you can show up in GLAD ForceFlex Plus.”

They’re both quiet for a second. Then they burst into laughter at the same time, and MJ literally rolls off the couch when her side starts to hurt. 

“What’s so funny?”

MJ looks up and finds Pepper, painted red lips quirked up at the corners. She tries to sober. “Nothing,” she says. Then, “Hey, can we shop somewhere vegan?”

Pepper blinks. “Of course. Did you have somewhere in mind?”

MJ and Wanda exchange a look. Wanda says, “What about OlsenHaus?”

* * *

“It’s too much,” MJ declares for the third time in a row. Regardless she twists her body to catch another angle. “It’s—look at me! It’s too much, I can’t do it.”

“It is _not_ too much,” Wanda says firmly, and then literally stops her foot. The effect is ruined by her red cowgirl boots. “You’re wearing it.”

“But _look_ at me?”

“I’m _looking,”_ Wanda replies. 

MJ shakes her head. She turns away from the mirror. “I pretend I do not see it,” she says, covering her eyes with her hand. 

Wanda gently pries her wrist away and turns her back around. She adjusts the thin white straps on MJ’s shoulders and shakes her head. “Ridiculous,” she says. “You’re a goddess. You’re literally glowing.”

“ _Wanda,”_ MJ whines, “it’s _too much.”_

“Trust me, anything else would be too _little._ This is subtle and ethereal without being over the top. You’re making a statement and you’re not even opening your mouth.”

When she puts it that way, it sounds pretty great, but _still._ MJ turns again so she can look at the back. It’ll need to be fitted and hemmed, which she’s sure Pepper can arrange in like five seconds flat. Still, it’s… 

Really pretty. Sparkly but still pretty simple in terms of the cut. 

In the hopes of feeling a little less self-conscious, MJ asks, “Well, what are you wearing?”

“Oh,” Wanda says, like she’d totally forgotten, and ducks into her changing stall to shimmy into one of the dresses she’d picked out. They’d split up to go search on their own and MJ had grabbed this one as kind of a joke—a _how stupid would it be if I wore this thing_ sort of situation, only it had completely backfired on her when Wanda’s jaw had dropped.

Her best friend comes out in a white dress like MJ’s, only it’s got this sheer overlay patterned with glittery gold stars and moons. It’s so _Wanda_ it’s fucking audacious. 

“Wow,” MJ says. “That… is literally perfect for you. What are the fucking odds.”

“I know, right?” Wanda twirls. “And the choker will work perfectly. I was thinking maybe some gold heels or something. What about you?”

“Converse.”

“What,” Wanda deadpans, going still.

“If I’m wearing the sparkly dress, I’m going in my sneakers. I want my feet to be comfortable and I _refuse_ to be a full foot taller than my date.”

“Peter isn’t _that_ short.”

“Oh no, you’re my date.”

Again: “What?” 

“Yeah, didn’t you read the group chat? Harley and Johnny are going together, but Ned needs to be someone’s plus one, so he and Peter are pairing up. That leaves us.”

Wanda, who can be kind of flighty and absent-minded for someone with such grounded beliefs, hums. She’s so bad at keeping up with texts, probably because she grew up in an actual HYDRA prison camp and still doesn’t fully understand technology. She prefers face-to-face conversations and human contact; she’s always grabbing hands and tugging on sleeves and stroking MJ’s hair when they marathon nature documentaries together. With anyone else MJ would probably be pretty uncomfortable, but it’s _Wanda_ so it just makes sense. 

MJ raises the skirt and lets it fall again. “It’s growing on me,” she admits. 

Wanda beams and claps her hands. “Come on, let’s go show the Aunts.”

MJ snorts and lets herself be dragged out of the changing room and into the seating area where May and Pepper are waiting. May is actually trying on a dress of her own—a simple silky white slip with pearls—and Pepper is on the phone with someone.

“I’ll call you back,” she says when she catches sight of them, and promptly hangs up. “ _Wow.”_

May turns. Her eyes widen. “Holy Mary,” she says. “You two clean up nice.”

“MJ hates it,” Wanda tattles.

“I don’t _hate it,_ ” MJ argues just for the sake of being stubborn, which had totally been Wanda’s plan all along. “I just…” she flops her arms uselessly. “I don’t know.”

“Well _I_ think you look divine,” May says. 

“I have just the earrings,” Pepper adds, “diamond ones. You’re gonna make _news articles_ in that dress, Michelle.”

“And just think of the stiffy Peter’s gonna get when he sees you in that,” Wanda whispers in MJ’s ear, and cackles at MJ’s exclamation of _‘Wanda, oh my god!’_

Blushing, she tells Pepper, “I’ll take it.”

* * *

“Oh, he fucked a turkey. He totally fucked his Thanksgiving turkey, further defiling an already disgusting holiday, and unashamedly fed the double beat-meat to his family. Fucking nasty ass perv.”

MJ finishes her observation and leans against the edge of a round table, listening to Wanda snarf into her Shirley Temple so violently it almost spills down the front of her dress. 

“Okay,” Wanda says, still giggling, “what about him? Checkered tie, looks like he just swallowed a beet whole.”

MJ scans the crowd for him and chokes on a laugh as she imagines him unhinging his jaw snake-style to hock down the roundest, grossest root vegetable there is. “He’s— _hehehe—_ he’s definitely a Jets fan. God.” She watches the man adjust his ballsack when he thinks no one is looking and averts her eyes with a hoot. “He’s got four kids but he only wanted two. The oldest three are boys but he—he and his wife wanted a girl, so they kind of hate the last one and blame him for all their debt. He goes to six soccer games every weekend and drowns his sorrows in Smokers Coughs and prairie oysters.”

“I know half of those words at most and yet I can still tell that you’re right,” Wanda says, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She’s got these little moon and star clips clinging to her waves. They give her the general air of being some sort of badass sorceress or superior wedding dress model. MJ feels very cool by proximity.

“Stark looks like he wants to bury himself alive,” MJ points out, jerking her chin in his direction. 

Wanda tilts her head. “Who do you think that man he’s talking to is?”

MJ sips some of the sparkling cider Pepper had shoved in her hand before nudging her into the gala hall. “I think he owns Pringles. Like, the company Pringles. He owns it and he’s here because Tony wants a flavor modeled off arc reactor discharge and suit sweat.”

Wanda’s head falls back as she laughs out loud. She covers her mouth with her hand in a vain attempt at muffling it. MJ grins.

“I think,” Wanda starts, before dissolving into another wave of giggles. She laughs so much, and normally laughter is like nails on a chalkboard for MJ—especially in situations like this: fancy stuff where she needs to be Very Polite and act like a Good Little Girl—but Wanda’s laugh is one of her favorites. “I think he’s an Uber driver with connections to Yakuza, but only because he wants to sell knockoff Pocky to their kids.”

MJ gives her a look. “ _You_ can’t guess. That’s basically cheating.”

“How? It’s not like I’m checking if I’m right.”

“But you have more experience _knowing_ if you’re right.”

“You are too technical.”

“A lot can be lost in the technicalities,” MJ argues, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Wanda shrugs. “Yes, but maybe it’s easier to look at the big picture.”

“Easier sure, but is it _right?”_ MJ stops and takes another enormous gulp of her cider because if she keeps talking she’ll fight with Wanda, and she’s not about that life. “Speaking of right,” she says in a softer tone, waving at Ned. 

He bobbles through the crowd towards them, pushing through a tight group of boring-looking men in suits. “So sorry sir, excuse me sir, hi, Happy New Year, so extremely sorry.” He stumbles to a stop before MJ and Wanda and grins widely. “Hi guys. Great party, huh?”

“Don’t be too excited Ned, you might start an accidental rave or something.” MJ reaches out to straighten his tie. “You look good, kid.”

“That hat is very cool,” Wanda adds.

Ned somehow manages to beam even wider. Sunshine child! Light of MJ’s life! “I’ve been told hats are a good accessory for me and I’m capitalizing on that.”

“As you should,” agrees MJ, with a Gentleman’s bow that sends her curls tumbling over her shoulders. She groans and tosses them back because her mother had made it very clear that this dress is the _collarbones out_ type. 

Not that MJ cares all that much about other people’s input on her outfits, but her mom was actually right this time. Her collarbones are _popping_ tonight and she’s _showing off._

It turns out Wanda is a miracle-worker with contour. Who’da thunk it? Not her.

“Have you seen Johnny?” Ned asks, perching onto his toes as if it’ll give him enough added height to see above the crowd.

MJ, who has that height naturally as a result of her breadstick legs, searches for him. 

“Why, is he okay?” Wanda asks, craning her own neck to see. 

“I mean, I think so,” says Ned. “I just haven’t seen him yet. Or Peter. Or Harley, for that matter.”

MJ does some quick math in her head. Harley plus Johnny plus Peter equals tragedy. Subtract the Peter and it equals sweet, sweet loving.

Peter may not be stupid by any means, but he is blind, so MJ doesn’t know how much she trusts his ability to shove the Prince and the Pauper together before the clock strikes twelve. A part of her wants to believe he’s got them locked in a closet right this very second, but the other, rational part of her knows she’s expecting too much from her best big-eared doofus.

MJ scrunches her nose up and hums. “But where?”

“And who?” asks Wanda.

“What?” Ned, blissfully unaware Ned, resident sweetheart. MJ wants to swaddle him.

“Why, how?” MJ adds, raising an eyebrow and peering over the rim of her glass. She chugs the rest of her cider in one graceless go and then sets it on the nearest surface. “What do we say to a little reconnaissance mission, Scooby Doo style?”

“I’m literally revving up my imaginary Mystery Machine as we speak,” Ned says. “Am I Daphne? I’m totally Daphne.”

“Johnny is Daphne,” Wanda corrects. “You’re Scooby and Peter is Shaggy, of course.”

“Ugh, am I Velma? The textbook example of the sexualization of nerd culture?” MJ blinks once. “Yes, I answered my own question, I am. The answer is yes.”

“I’m Fred,” says Wanda definitively.

“Harley is the van,” Ned finishes. MJ and Wanda nod in stoic agreement.

A moment passes in which they do nothing but stare at each other, and then they all burst into laughter at once. It’s loud and stupid and young, and MJ doesn’t care that it attracts dirty looks from all corners of the hall. She grabs them both by their wrists, “Come on, Scooby Squad, let’s get these gays.”

* * *

Peter has never been more uncomfortable in his life. 

Not only is the tux Pepper bought for him—bought, as in purchased, not _rented_ like all of his other formal wear—incredibly stiff and simply too tight, but he also just _hates_ events like this. He’s only gone to a couple at Tony’s behest (and one held at the Baxter Building a few months ago that he’d crashed) and he’s despised every single one. 

Tonight is no different, even if it’s New Year’s and all of his best pals are here. He feels out of place. It doesn’t matter if Pepper wraps him up in Gucci and sprays him with CK1, he’s still just a working-class kid from Queens who lives in a shoebox walk up. 

He doesn’t belong here, even if Tony thinks he does—which is obvious given the way he parades Peter around and raves about him to guests (“Have you met my personal intern, Peter Parker?” “Here, have a crab puff—oh, have I introduced you to young Mr. Parker here?”). 

He’s a weirdo. He won’t fit in, he doesn’t _want_ to fit in. Has anyone ever seen him without this stupid hat? That’s weird. 

All of this explains why he’s hiding in a bathroom stall, sitting cross legged on the toilet while Harley bangs on the door. 

“Pete, just _come out._ ”

“No,” Peter says. “I made my appearance, I did my round, now I’m hiding. Consider me finished.”

Harley groans. He’s been trying to get Peter out for like, ten minutes straight now—coincidentally right around when MJ and Wanda had arrived, but that’s irrelevant—to no avail. 

“Come on, it’s _New Years._ Let’s get drunk and have fun.” Harley pauses, waiting for a response that doesn’t come. “Peter, _please?_ I can’t go out there on my own.”

“I’m pooping,” Peter calls. “Go away.”

“You are _not!”_ The door handle shakes. “Peter!”

“Good sir!” Peter yelps, holding the handle in place, “please, I’m indecent! This is simply improper, I’m going to have to ask you to exit the premises!”

“Oh my god,” Harley snaps. “You’re a fuckin’ asshole, do you know that? I _need_ you, you dumbfuck. Jesus, I can’t go out there alone, I really mean it.”

Peter pauses. “Why not?” 

He whispers it through the little wooden slats of the stall door. It’s completely ridiculous. Harley leans to peer through the gigantic ass crack that all bathroom stalls have. “Johnny,” he says.

“What?” Peter jerks open the door. “Are you two fighting?”

“No,” Harley whines, “he’s just so _hot._ ”

Peter stares for a long second. Blinks. Takes a deep breath and pulls his hands to his mouth Boi style. Says, “ _Boi.”_

“I know,” Harley laments. “I’m fuckin’ pathetic. Look at me, would you? I’m—look at _him!_ Did you see him?! Did you see what he was wearing? I want to bury myself in a snowbank, Peter, oh my _god._ ”

Peter nods with genuine sympathy and puts a hand on Harley’s shoulder. “I know, m’boy, I know.”

Harley sniffs in a fashion that could either be very fake or very real. “He knows what he’s doing, that little bastard. Wearing fucking _dark blue._ What an asshole!”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, because in an (albeit horrific and unimaginable) alternate universe where MJ didn’t exist, he would probably want to tap that. Still, “Did you see MJ?”

Harley grunts. “Yeah. She looked like a fancy disco ball.”

“I know,” Peter whines. “She’s so—I just—I couldn’t even say hi. I didn’t think my voice would work. Sometimes I get all squeaky around her like a little mouse and she’s—she deserves so much more than a mouse, you know? She needs like, a lion or a bear or something. I am _not_ a bear. I’m—I’m babie, you know? _God_.” 

He goes over to the sink to rinse his face because suddenly he’s like, sweating. Disgusting, appalling, he deserves to be burnt at the stake. 

Harley perches on the marble counter and pulls a silver flask from his pocket. “Liquid courage?”

Peter nods pathetically and takes a big swing. Harley whistles and takes it back to drink, only right then Johnny walks in and of course he literally fucking _chokes._

Peter pats his back. “Hey, John,” he says. “What’s up?”

“MJ and Wanda asked me to check in here for you guys,” he tells them, brows furrowing as Harley coughs. “Apparently they were looking for us. What are you guys doing?”

“Drinking,” Peter says, capping the flask and tucking it in his own pocket for now. He looks at Harley. “You good?”

“Fan-fuckin’-tastic,” Harley wheezes, and then slides down. “Shall we mingle, boys?”

* * *

They mingle. Tony shows Peter off some more and Johnny commits himself to staying by his best friend’s side so he doesn’t end up getting sucked into boring conversations with socialites and benefactors and the CEO of Nestle—to which Johnny says, and he quotes, “You’re doing great things with your instant hot chocolate mix. Keep up the good work.”

At some point they manage to break away. There’s a black baby grand tucked into a corner where the crowd isn’t so thick. Peter and Johnny settle on the bench. 

“Hey Peter,” Johnny says, after they go through _Heart & Soul _twice, “Why is Harley being so fucking weird?” 

“Hmm?”

“Don’t play dumb.” 

“I’m not _playing_ dumb, my dear Watson, I just _am_ dumb.”

“Uh-huh,” Johnny rolls his eyes. “So you wouldn’t happen to know why he’s pretty much avoiding me?”

It’s been going on since he got here. They were fine this morning, but Harley’s barely said two words to him all night. He won’t even _look_ at him, and the worst part is that something is _clearly_ wrong. It’s like, absolute agony. He doesn’t like not knowing what’s going on with Harley Keener. He is _always_ supposed to know. 

“Let me spell it out for you, Johnny,” Peter says now, and clears his throat. 

He hits the G key. The A key. The E key. 

It takes Johnny a full ten seconds to decipher his meaning. “Oh, fuck you,” he snaps, giving Peter a good shove. Peter has the nerve to laugh out loud. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s not?”

“I—” Johnny chokes a little. “I don’t have feelings for him. He doesn’t have feelings for me. How could it be like that? Two negatives do not equal a positive.” 

Peter gives him an _Are you fucking shitting me_ look. Then he shakes his head in utter disappointment. “Don’t use mathematics to explain the most illogical statement that’s ever come out of your face hole, Flamebrain,” he says. “And for the record, two negatives _do_ equal a fucking positive, you absolute _buffoon._ ”

Johnny blinks. “They do?”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Peter says, but he’s not looking at Johnny anymore; his gaze is locked onto his aunt and Wilson, who happen to be locked onto _each other._ “Do they have to be so _public?”_

“They’re just talking,” Johnny says, because he’s hardwired to be May Parker’s biggest defender, her knight in shining armour. 

“Talking,” Peter snorts. “ _Closely._ Do you see that? Him all up in her business? I count three inches between them at most.”

“I would say it’s more like five, actually—”

“ _Jonathan_.” 

“Alright, Jesus, it’s three.”

“Thank you.” Peter starts playing some dour song to backdrop his angst. “I still haven’t given him an answer about moving in. I mean, I know it’s selfish but like, I’m just not ready, y’know?” 

“It’s not selfish,” Johnny says. “It’s your house, too.”

“Yeah, but she likes him. Like, _likes him,_ likes him. As in: _loves_ him.”

“She told you that?”

A jerky nod. “The other night over Jeopardy. _Jeopardy,_ Johnny! The most sacred television program known to man!” 

Johnny’s never looked at it that way. Jeopardy, for him, was something Marygay used to put on when she was too busy to look after him properly. But he knows that Peter used to watch it with Ben. It was like, a thing of theirs. 

That had to hurt pretty bad. 

“So she loves him,” he says, shrugging and playing lighter notes to compliment Peter’s dark ones. “It’s only been a few months, right? She can wait until you come to terms with it.”

“That’s what she said,” Peter agrees, “but I can tell she’s not like, jazzed with the state of our relationship.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Why don’t you like him?”

Peter’s hands pause. He sighs and faces Johnny full-on. “If what happened in that airport happens again somewhere down the line, which side is he gonna be on?”

“Really? That’s why?”

“ _Yes,_ that’s why. It’s real simple, Jay: he was Team Steve. I was Team Tony.”

“Can I make it anymore obvious,” Johnny sings. 

Peter gives him a look. He’s like, dead serious about this. It’s kind of a lot—not that Johnny isn’t always down to carry Peter’s shit for him, but still. He wasn’t expecting to have a heart-to-heart over Chopsticks. 

“It just gets to me. You weren’t there in that airport. You don’t know what went down, you know?”

“Sure, sure,” Johnny nods, “but you adore the shit out of Wanda and she was there, too.”

“She didn’t wanna be,” Peter says. “We’ve talked about it a lot. She just… wanted to do what she thought was right. She didn’t have all of the info.”

“Well have you considered that maybe Sam didn’t, either?”

Peter groans and falls face-first into the keys. A few party-goers look over, but most return to their champagne flutes and boring conversations after a few seconds of staring. 

Johnny puts his hand on Peter’s back. “It’s okay to not know,” he says quietly, “but you should at least try to understand why he did what he did before you write him off, okay?”

“Yeah,” Peter whines. “Okay.”

“Do you really mean ‘okay’ or do you mean ‘shut the fuck up and get me a drink, Johnny’?”

Peter pauses. “Uh, both?”

* * *

**dumbo**

come hither 

**staff sgt. jones**

oh, if it isn’t Mr. Asshole

you’ve been avoiding me all night

don’t think I didn’t notice 

dickweed

**dumbo**

ma’am you are so right 

and I apologize sincerely 

from the bottom of my achy breaky heart 

pls come

i summon u

let me say sowwy 

**staff sgt. jones**

what the fuck I want a divorce 

dont ever say ‘sowwy’ to me

where r u anyway

**dumbo**

upstairs wash room

[sent with shooting star effect] 

**staff sgt. jones**

fuck

idiot 

okay

* * *

He pulls her into the bathroom and he’s kissing her before MJ can even react, and when she _does_ react it’s only to kiss him back. It’s kind of become an instinct at this point and she has no inclination of fighting it off, especially not when he moves his lips from her mouth to her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. 

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I just—” then he pinches his brow. “This is gonna sound really stupid, but you look so pretty I actually forgot how to speak?”

MJ opens her mouth. Closes it. Then, “Oh.”

He cracks an eye. “Do you still wanna kill me?”

“I never wanted to kill you,” she says softly. “I just thought maybe you were pissed off or something.”

His brows scrunch up. “Pissed? For why?”

“I don’t know,” she blurts. “That was my question, stupid head.”

Peter shakes his head and then starts kissing her again, everywhere: her lips, her face, the crook of her neck. “Not mad,” he mutters as her eyes flutter closed. “Just super intimidated… because you’re very… pretty… my brain meats got fried.”

MJ laughs, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and nudging her nose against his own. “You’re dumb.”

He nods eagerly. “So dumb,” he agrees. 

Then he stops talking, and he tastes sweet like champagne and his body is warm against her own. MJ can’t think of a better feeling. Suddenly that sense of discomfort she’s been nursing since she put on this dress goes away, and it’s just him and her and her hand in his hair, his climbing the ladder of her ribcage until—

“Are you wearing sneakers?”

He rips away to ask it, eyes wide and flitting down to look at the toes of the shoes he’d accidentally stepped on. 

MJ’s face flushes. “Uh, yeah.”

Peter throws his head back and laughs. Then he cups her face in his hands and says, “I love you,” like he really means it, like the fact overjoys him, and MJ feels fucking _butterflies_ in her _stomach._

Disgusting. Feelings are so gross. 

“I love you, too.” 

* * *

Johnny finds Harley just before the ball drops.

He’s out back standing by the steaming pool (and why the fuck they have a pool uncovered in the middle of winter is beyond Johnny, but rich people be on some new wavelengths, so whatever) sneaking drinks with Peter and Ned, swaying a little as he cackles about something. 

“What is this?” Johnny demands. “You’re cracking open a cold one without all of your boys?”

“We couldn’t find you guys,” Peter defends. “I lost track of MJ after we—uh—” he stops talking abruptly, clears his throat, and then takes a huge swig. 

“It’s okay, you can say it,” Johnny says, rolling his eyes. “You fucked around in the bathroom.”

Peter drinks some more. Then he stops and focuses on Johnny like he’s seeing him for the first time. “Hmm?”

“Oh my god.” Johnny snatches the bottle of scotch they’d probably stolen right out of the kitchen. He considers hurtling it somewhere into the distance, but then catches sight of the label. _Macallan._ Reed’s favourite. 

Johnny drinks instead. 

It burns all the way down, but that’s nothing new. He drinks and drinks and keeps drinking until Harley pries the bottle away. “Take it easy Jay,” he mutters. 

“It’s New Year’s,” Johnny replies, and doesn’t say everything else: _it’s New Year’s and they’re gone, I’m lonely, I’m a little bit scared, I need you, I’ve needed you all night and where the hell have you been?_

Harley doesn’t hear him even when he tries to tell it all to him with his eyes. They’re burning now, too. God, is he seriously crying? How _lame_ is that?

Peter and Ned haven’t even noticed, mostly because Ned is absolutely wasted and Peter can’t stop laughing at whatever slurred story Ned is regaling him with. 

Someone jumps against Johnny’s back. Bergamot and black vanilla and oakmoss; mesh material scratching his neck. _Wanda_. She plants a kiss to his cheek. “What are you idiots doing out here? It’s almost midnight, everyone else is inside.”

“We’re not drunk,” Ned blurts, eyes wide.

“He is, I’m not,” Peter tacks on. Then he thinks for a second. “Tipsy. I am. Me tipsy. Hey Maximoff, where’s my brain cell?”

“ _Inside_ ,” Wanda says, “which is where _we_ should all be unless you want to freeze to death.”

“MJ!” Peter calls instead, to no avail. “ _Emmie!_ ”

“Peter—” Wanda starts, but he banshee screeches over her protest. 

Johnny joins in and then they all start yelling for her, and it takes the five of them to get her to duck out the back door of the venue. She marches over to them, sparkly and annoyed. “What the hell are you morons doing out here? Are you trying to get hypothermia or something?”

Johnny clicks his tongue and turns up his bodily heat. Immediately their collective shoulders sag, soaking in the warmth he’s radiating. Johnny feels strangely energised by that; he’d give it all to them, he really would. Like, if they were all stranded in Antarctica or on Hoth or something, he would gladly sacrifice himself so that they could survive for as long as possible. He wonders how long that would be. Like, how much juice does he actually have? Is this power unlimited or does it drain every time he pulls from it? Will he just slump over one day like the energizer bunny and croak?

Johnny is so lost in his thoughts that doesn’t realise what time it is until the crowd inside starts counting down. “ _5… 4… 3… 2… 1—Happy New Year!”_

They all start pulling those poppers and blowing into party pipes. _Auld Lang Syne_ kicks on and floats gently through the outdoor stereo system. Peter kisses MJ. Wanda and Ned hug. 

And Johnny tunes it all out. He can’t hear anything but his own heartbeat: heavy in his chest, rattling his ribcage. 

He bucks up just enough courage to grab Harley by the wrist of his turtleneck and kiss him on the cheek. 

It’s not because he’s lonely. It’s not because it’s New Year’s Eve. It’s just because he wants to. 

“Happy New Year,” he whispers, only inches away from his favourite person on this planet. He could really kiss him if he wanted to—and God, does he want to. He wants to know exactly what Harley tastes like and what it feels like to be right up against him. He wants to know what sounds Harley would make, he wants to know what his lips feel like. All day, every day, he wonders, he imagines. Right now he could find out. 

“Johnny,” Harley breathes. “I—”

Johnny pushes him into the pool.

It could be the worst decision he’s ever made, or it could be the best one. He just knows he doesn’t wanna kiss Harley when _he_ tastes like scotch. He doesn’t wanna kiss Harley when it could be misinterpreted as a joke or a New Year’s thing. 

If he’s gonna kiss Harley, he’s gonna be sober. If he’s gonna kiss him, he’s gonna let the stupid crawdad know he means it. 

Harley shoots up out of the water and starts cursing Johnny out, but Johnny just laughs. Then he jumps in with him. Peter follows because that’s just the way he is, and then Wanda and MJ get yanked down, and Ned does a cannonball because he is not to be outdone by anyone. 

“What the fuck!” screeches Tony Stark, cutting all their laughter short. “What are you doing?! It’s _January,_ it’s _freezing!_ Get out of the goddamn pool! Madonna _mia,_ where are your fucking parents?!”

“Relax, it’s heated,” Peter shouts back. 

Johnny offers a bow. Tony runs a hand down his face, all Distressed Dad, and warns them that they better be at the limos in five minutes or they’re walking back to the Tower.

They make it in time—soaking wet and singing _Buffalo Girls_ , sure, but still. 

* * *

Harley doesn’t fit in with all these damn Avengers. 

To be fair, they seem to have a hard time all fitting together on their own; the Rogues kind of keep to one couch while everyone else is scattered throughout the rest of the living room. 

Some old black and white movie is playing on the TV, but no one is watching. They’re either playing Monopoly at the coffee table or betting on the game. 

Natasha Romanoff is winning. _Obviously._

Harley leans back in his seat, bored already. He finds himself scanning the room for something else to focus on: Peter and MJ curled together on the couch, half asleep and still damp from the pool. MJ’s sleek hairstyle was ruined by the water, so it’s curling again and obscures half of her face. 

Then there’s Sam and May, talking quietly in the kitchen while they make something for everyone to eat; Steve and Barnes and Tony desperately trying to send Romanoff to jail. It’s all… a lot. 

Harley misses Rose Hill. He misses the muffled quiet, misses Lucy, misses his Mama. He just wants to curl up under his quilt and hibernate for weeks like a bear. 

God, he’s such a homebody.

Johnny pokes Harley in the side. He’s on the floor but he’s had his head on Harley’s thigh for a good half hour, meaning that Harley’s literally refused to move that part of his body. The circulation in his legs is cutting off. 

“Hey,” Johnny says. “You good?”

“What? Oh, yeah,” Harley lies. “I’m fine.”

He’s not fine. His cheek burns. He wonders if it’s visible—if the brand Johnny left there can actually be seen by everyone else. 

Johnny sits up. Probably he can tell from Harley’s voice that Harley is decidedly _not_ fine, and Harley figures he’s gonna say something either really poetic or really snarky. 

Instead: “Can you come with me? I have to do something.”

* * *

The ‘something’ Johnny has to do isn’t particularly riveting. 

They go to his room at the end of the hallway. Johnny sits on the edge of his bed and stares glumly at his phone for a while, chewing his lip. 

Then he clicks the screen a few times and holds it to his ear. Says in a raspy voice: “Ben. It’s uh—it’s me. I just wanted to… God, I don’t know. Happy New Year, Orange-Slice. I miss you.”

Johnny ends the message. Then he gets real quiet, and it takes a few minutes of straight silence for Harley to realise Johnny is crying. 

“Oh,” he says, and then, “oh, Johnny, hey.”

Harley doesn’t even think before pulling Johnny against him. He holds him the way he holds Poppy after a bad dream; the way he tried to hold his Mama when Daddy skipped out, only he was too small to rightly get his arms all the way around her. 

But Johnny fits there perfectly. He grabs at Harley’s shirt and buries his face in the crook of Harley’s neck. He’s not even sobbing, really; just shaking and tearful and gasping every few seconds.

“Breathe,” Harley whispers. He kisses the crown of Johnny’s head for good measure. Touch is good. Touch grounds a person, like fingers buried in the Earth, like freezing cold water, like Johnny all the time. Johnny who constantly prevents him from wigging out, who keeps his hyperactive twitches and ramblings to a minimum, who is so warm all the way through. He’s the sun and Harley is an evergreen, reaching up to soak in all that heat, to store it in his veins for a rainy day. 

He holds Johnny tighter and Johnny makes a little noise—some cross between a whine and a sob. Harley feels his heart shatter into a thousand little pieces with it. 

“It’ll be okay,” he says, trying his best to mean it. “You’re gonna be okay, Jay. I’ve got you and I’m—I’m not letting you go. I promise, alright? Cross my fuckin’ heart.”

Johnny nods and sniffs and clutches him, eyes-red rimmed, broken and feverish. “Okay,” he whispers, voice small.

And Harley—God, Harley could just about die. As it is he comes damn close. 

But a promise is a promise. 

* * *

Johnny’s got Peter’s Pillow Pet in his arms. It’s a frog, which probably says all anyone needs to know. He leans back against the headboard of the bed and presses his nose against the bright green fluff. 

He’s so damn _tired._ He’s tired of moving and breathing and talking. He would much rather be a college campus acorn that someone wearing Chucks tied around their ankles kicks around. Alas, he is no nut. He is a boy, a real boy, and so he asks, “Why are you so stupid?” 

“I am not stupid. I left plenty of time to pack,” Peter responds, his voice absolutely wired from the four espresso shots he just took in the kitchen. It sounds like he’s made of violin strings and the player is furious. “I left so much time to pack. I’m not going to be late at all when Tony shows up in fifteen minutes, I’m not going to be late, I’m _not_.”

“You’re dumb,” Johnny declares. His whole body feels like soup and cotton. He melts into the mattress and can’t remember the last time he felt as relaxed as he does now, surrounded by Peter’s metal-and-clementine-skin scent. It clings to the wrinkled sheets and hovers in the air. “Silly Pete. You need… time management skills...”

“Are you falling asleep in my bed?” Peter demands from inside his closet. 

“Hmm? What? Just be thankful I’m not naked in here.”

“Oy vey. I’ve gotta say: this? I didn’t miss it while you were gone.”

“What, my endless love for you?”

“Your _nagging,_ Torchy.”

“I could nag worse. I could be the biggest nag in your life if I really wanted to be.”

“You think you aren’t already?”

“Not when Tony Stark exists.”

“You know what?” Peter emerges from the closet, his entire body vibrating, three shirts thrown over his shoulders and two hats on his head, a pair of oversized neon green sunglasses balanced on his nose. “You are completely correct. How do I look?”

Johnny grabs his phone and takes a picture in response. 

Peter poses, one hip cocked, his ass poking out like a gangly little stripper. Johnny takes another. 

Then he puts his phone away and hugs Peter’s frog closer. “What’s his name?”

“What? Oh, uh, Pepe.”

Johnny snorts. “Fucking dumbass.” 

They stay in companionable silence for a stretch of time, during which Johnny finds himself dozing off. He starts in surprise and blinks himself awake every time. 

It’s not that he wants to stay up or anything—it’s hardly past seven in the morning. But the fact of the matter is that they’re leaving for Montauk soon, and Johnny refuses to be late. This contradicts the fact that Johnny, on principle, refuses to rise before the sun.

It’s not even really out yet. The sky is still lavender. This is against his strict moral code and his eyeballs sting.

He knuckles them and peers toward the closet, only to find Peter staring back at him with this mushy look on his face: smiling sappily, eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Pull yourself together,” Johnny says fondly. 

“Says you,” Peter replies, stripping off his stupid layers. He brings some of the shirts to his nose before tossing the one that passes the sniff-test into his duffel bag. “You’re the biggest mess out of any of us, probably.”

“I surely don’t know what you’re talking about,” Johnny says, suddenly surly with embarrassment, burrowing deeper into the sheets so he can hide his pink cheeks. 

“You’re in _love!”_ Peter crows. He’s literally vibrating at the speed of sound. Johnny does not know how on Earth _he_ is the one under scrutiny in this situation. “You’re absolutely bonkers in love and you’re not doing anything about it.”

“I’m not in love,” Johnny argues. “Do I foster a slight, harmless sort of physical attraction to Rootin’ Tootin’ River Phoenix? Perhaps. But can you even blame me for it? His eyes! I still don’t know what color they are, but they’re goddamn pretty. That’s the color: goddamn pretty. Ugh, he’s so stupid.” 

Johnny rolls onto his stomach and shoves his face into Pepe’s back. “He knits sweaters for his sheep and he plays guitar way too late at night. It keeps me up and he doesn’t even care. He won’t let me look at his big dumb sketchbook and I know in my old man bones that he’s like, the best artist ever.”

“He’s pretty good,” Peter affirms. 

Johnny sits up, politely ignoring the way Peter is tossing loose, single socks into his bag. “You’ve seen his art?”

“You have too, on his TikTok.”

“Oh. I thought you meant you’d seen inside his creepy leather sketchbook.”

“No, I’ve seen that too.”

Johnny feels an ember spit out of his eye. “You’ve—you? _You?_ ”

“Me, I,” Peter agrees. 

“He let you and not me?”

“I mean, I guess so.”

“I’ve never been more offended in my whole life. I can’t believe he’s done this. What the _fuck.”_

Peter straightens and plants his hands on his hips, throwing Johnny an exasperated glance. “They’re just sketches, dude. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a big deal! It’s a _huge_ deal!”

Peter raises his eyebrows. “And why is that, Mister _I’m not in love with him?”_

“Because—” Johnny flounders for a moment, “—I’m still his friend. Either way, I’m his friend. Shouldn’t he want to share them with me? Because friendship? Wouldn’t the Care Bears encourage sharing?” 

“Not everyone is confident with their art, you know? Some people aren’t ready to just show their stuff off. I mean, I don’t post _all_ the pictures I take on Instagram. They’re not the stuff I want to share and sometimes I’m not proud of them. Sometimes they’re literally just practice when I need to get used to a new lens.” Peter makes a rectangle with his fingers and squints through it at Johnny. “It’s all about perspective, Hot Head.”

Johnny sighs because that makes sense. But he doesn’t _want_ sense. 

What he _really_ wants is every inch of Harley for his own: everything Harley says—good and bad and stupid and the mumbles in-between—all that he makes, all that he is. Johnny wants to run his palms over every hardwood corner of him, feel the knicks in the wizened wood, run his fingernails along it to make Harley shiver. He wants to take him—frizzy hair, itchy sweater, that soft vanilla smell—and hold him. He wants to give his own warmth, pour it into the veins that carve winding rivers over Harley’s wrists. He wants to trade: some of Harley’s passion for some of Johnny’s heat. Fuel to fire. 

To have a piece of each other.

It’d be splendid to really love him. 

But Johnny can’t do that. It’s not an even bargain when he shows up with his heart in his hands and Harley is always caught off-guard, always missing the moment. He’s blind but so loved that it makes Johnny sick to think about. Why can’t he just _see_ it? 

Johnny groans and faceplants into Pepe’s fur. Peter’s body thumps against his out of nowhere like a very tiny linebacker. He knocks them both flat against the mattress. 

“Sneak attack!” Peter yells. 

Johnny shrieks and tries to wriggle free when Peter starts to tickle him, but it’s hopeless. Peter is sneaky and strong and also a little bastard. When he’s all cracked up on coffee strong enough to clear a clogged toilet? He’s unstoppable. 

Peter doesn’t let up until they’re both wheezing. Johnny’s got tears hanging onto his lashes and Peter’s grinning like he’s never been sad a minute of his life. 

Johnny knocks his knuckles on Peter’s cheek. Peter dips his forehead onto Johnny’s shoulder. 

“So I have your blessing?” Johnny asks, a bit of genuine nervousness writhing in his stomach. 

Peter looks affronted at the question. “As if you need it. _Harley_ needs my blessing to date _you._ God, he’s a disgusting asshole shithead and you’re such a baby angel cake, dude.”

“Dude,” Johnny says, a little choked up. 

Peter gives him a truly savage wet willie in response, his duffel bag forgotten as they scuffle on his sheets, all elbows and knees and raucous, boyish laughter. 

* * *

The drive up to Montauk is truly hellish.

Tony takes them, which is a pretty surreal experience for Johnny, who doesn’t think he’s ever seen the guy behind the wheel before. It feels like he’s stepped into some freakish alternate reality. 

Peter and Tony are unfortunately in charge of the music, which means they spend half of the time headbanging to _Baby Shark_ —which is an image Johnny would willingly bleach his brain to get rid of—and the other half bickering over what to listen to next. 

Normally Johnny would just tune them out with his own music, but he forgot his headphones back at the farm. MJ is a merciful soul, however, and shares her pair with him. 

At least he can say he’s well-versed in girl band punk-pop now. 

Johnny literally box-springs out of the SUV when they get to the beach. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy to leave a car before. 

The air is damp and laced with salt. It blows his hair from his eyes when he squints out at the shoreline, which all blends together in varying shades of grey and dark blue. It looks miserable, but it makes him grin like a complete idiot. He hasn’t been out here for two summers and God, he’d missed it. 

Harley slides up next to him, wrapping his Sherpa-lined coat tighter around his body. “You neglected to mention the part where it would be fuckin’ freezing, hot-shot.”

Johnny hums. “Give me a piggyback ride down to the cabin and I’ll defrost you.”

* * *

They end up splitting two cabins because Peter had refused to accept a single cent from Tony. He wanted to, and Johnny quotes, “Have a good time on his own dime.” 

Johnny can respect that, but it doesn’t mean he’s pleased with the spider he finds sitting on his bed the minute he walks into his room, like it’s just been waiting there for him all along. It stares with all eight eyes, perfectly still. 

There would _not_ have been a creepy stalker spider in the bigger, more expensive cabins up the shore. There would have been hot tubs and gigantic rugs with polar bear heads that would’ve sent MJ into a frenzy. He can practically _smell_ the luxury of it. 

Still, it’s not so bad. He shares with MJ and Wanda and the other boys take cabin two. Tony warns them not to get alcohol poisoning or set anything on fire or die, and they all give him hearty salutes and _yes sir_ ’s. Tony rolls his eyes and peels out. 

Naturally, the first thing Johnny and Wanda do is find a liquor store. 

It’s a tiny little rundown building with peeling paint. Though Wanda is older than them, she’s still not legally allowed to drink and has to like, brainwash the clerk so they can walk out with their arms full of vodka, tequila, and bourbon. 

He loves her, really. In Johnny’s fine opinion, Wanda Maximoff is just about the coolest thing since sliced bread. 

They build a fire on the beach—well, Peter grabs a bunch of driftwood and says, “Cough on it,” and Johnny literally has to restrain himself from punching his best friend’s teeth out. 

They set up little benches with the planks, the wood creaking and fragrant with years of water and salt soaked in. There’s a warmth lingering in the air when they set up the fire pit, ashy and blatant—the type Johnny wants to roll up inside, to simmer along with. 

They drink, making toasts to stupid shit like _Apple Jacks cereal!_ and _Elton John’s blue raspberry vibes!_  
  


It’s overwhelming, but good. The sea warps around them, the sand shifts, and Johnny watches them all smile, tries to memorize their laughs.

“I’m gonna marry him,” MJ says much later, sitting next to Johnny in front of the spitting flames. 

Her eyes are on Peter. He’s a little ways down the beach building the world’s lamest sandcastle with Harley. 

Like, it’s seriously just a shapeless pile of wet sand. They’d promised something amazing, something architecturally sound and visibly mind blowing, but now they’re both drunkenly laughing their asses off because Harley stuck a leaf on top of the lump and said, “Flag!”

So Johnny says, “Me too.” And then, at her raised eyebrow, “the other one, not your idiot.”

MJ snorts. “You’ll have to actually tell him you like him for that to work out, Storm.”

Johnny groans at that and flops onto his back. “But I don’t _wanna.”_

MJ leans over him. “Why not?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m scared. I don’t… I don’t wanna ruin anything, you know? I don’t want things to change so much we can’t ever go back to being friends if I fuck it up.”

“And why would you fuck it up?”

“Because I fuck _everything_ up? Because I’m like, bad with emotions and either make everything into a joke or feel it way, _way_ too much and—” he sucks in a sharp breath. “I don’t wanna be in the position to break the guy who spent so much time putting me back together, MJ. Like, I know I’m already going to hell, but that would really do it.” He knuckles his eyes. The smoke from the fire is making them sting or something. “Right now I possibly have a chance at redeeming myself. The angels above are judging me constantly, I can feel it. If I broke his heart I’d get a one-way ticket to the boiling lava pit of death.” 

MJ rolls her eyes. “You’re even more dramatic than Peter, and that’s saying something.”

Johnny moans again. God, she’s right. He’s a complete and total drama queen and that’s all there is to it. He deserves eternal damnation. 

He doesn’t expect MJ to lie down next to him, a wave of ginger and honeysuckle and tequila breath, her soft wool sweater dragging against the skin of his neck. Her hair tickles his cheek when she curls against his side. “I’m not into mushy shit,” she tells him, “but I just… I really think everything’ll work out, Jay. You’ve come this far, right?”

And yeah, that’s true. It’s been six weeks since Reed and Sue and the kids died and he already feels like an entirely different person; like he’s shed a skin or broken out of some kind of cocoon. He’s breathing, he’s taking baby steps. 

Johnny wraps his arm around her. “This is pretty mushy, Dr. Jones.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m cuddling you because you’re a human furnace. The kind words are only to shut you up.”

Johnny snorts. “I promise I won’t tell anyone. You’ll remain just as enigmatic and intimidating as before.”

She squeezes him. “Thank you.”

* * *

Ned and Wanda return from wherever they wandered off to with a bag full of seashells and cool stones each. Wanda somehow managed to find a few chunks of jade—one of which she instructs Harley to pass along to Pop.

They get good and drunk that night, more than that afternoon. Hair of the dog before the hangovers even set in.

Harley and Peter end up dancing around the fire, singing ‘Girls With One Leg and a Heart of Gold’ and ‘Farmer’s Daughter’, only they keep majorly fucking up the lyrics. It’s actually hilarious. Johnny can’t stop smiling, even as he’s trudging back to his cabin with Wanda under his arm. 

She always starts talking in Slovakian when she’s drunk and then gets frustrated when they don’t understand. Luckily MJ’s picked up a few words and tells her to “ _Nadol,_ ” which Johnny assumes means ‘sit’ by the way Wanda flops into the living area’s leather armchair. 

_“Chlad,”_ MJ says, working off Wanda’s boots. “You’re good, Ginger.”

Wanda says something in Russian now, which Johnny actually recognises because Peter says it all the time too, when he’s practising at Nat’s behest: “ _Ya liublyoo tibya._ ”

“What does that mean?” MJ asks. 

“I love you,” Johnny quotes fondly, and leans down to kiss the crown of Wanda’s head. “What a goof. Hey Wanda, do you want bed or do you want coffee to sober you up?”

“Coffee!” Wanda squawks, and so Johnny obliges. It’s not that late, after all, and personally he doesn’t feel like sleeping just yet. That means dreams; it means Sue scattered like stardust across the cosmos, and Reed crying out for help. 

So he makes a big pot for them all to share and a little while later, they’re sprawled across the living room floor doing face masks. Wanda is painting Johnny’s nails black. 

“I’m doing a shit job, just so you know,” she says dryly. 

“Nonsense, madame, you’re doing excellent. Monet is shaking in his grave.”

MJ snorts. She’s got like, six different creams on various parts of her face. “I never liked doing shit like this,” she says. “I always felt like I was conforming to some kind of stereotype. Plus I never had anyone to do it with.”

Johnny shakes his head. “Not to sound cornball, but we were honestly robbed of having the most epic childhood friendship. Like, it’s absolutely disgusting that we didn’t meet until last year. What in the fresh fuck.”

“Tell me about it,” Wanda mutters. “I spent years in a HYDRA base though, so I think, out of all of us, my life has been the most fucked up.”

“Oh, are we ranking tragedies now?” Johnny asks. 

“Just telling it like it is, Storm.” She scrapes some excess polish off his finger. “I was lied to and manipulated so that I could be used as a weapon of mass destruction.”

They both fall silent. Wanda doesn’t even notice until Johnny says, sadly, “Hey Wanda?”

“Hmm?”

He leans forward and macks her right on her cucumber green forehead. “You’re the best of us, y’know.”

Wanda’s hands are still and her lips are parted in utter shock. Then she blinks. “No,” she says shakily, “that’s Ned.”

Johnny laughs. God, he’s never felt so lucky, so _loved,_ in his whole life.

* * *

“This is one of our worst ideas ever,” MJ announces from Harley’s side exactly half of a second before their skates click together. They tumble to the ice in a knot of long limbs, screaming shrilly.

“Fuck, ow,” Harley grumbles, a chill crawling its way under his jacket. “MJ, get your knee out of my _asshole—”_

“Hate to break it to you champ, but that’s my wrist.”

“We have just become much too close for comfort.”

As they peel themselves off the ground, swiping bits of ice off each other’s shoulders, Harley catches a glimpse of Peter laughing at them in the distance. It’s not even a polite, half-hidden sort of thing: he’s hunched over his knees, one hand on Ned’s arm for balance. Harley can hear him wheezing.

“I’ll turn you into mulch, Parker!” Harley yells. “You’d better sleep with your eyes goddamn _peeled.”_

“He’d have to sleep at all for that to be possible,” MJ groans, leaning against the wall and rubbing her ass. Harley envies her nerve. He, too, wants to soothe the surely fucking plum-and-beet ache of his ass cheeks. They’re both gonna be bruised to shit.

He holds his elbow out.

She stares at it balefully. “Didn’t we just prove that we should not, under any circumstances, be skating partners?”

“Who else is gonna go slow with me?” Harley whines. “Come on, I’ll let you lead. You can just tug me around by the sleeve like I’m a little French Bulldog. I’ll be Petunia Mulaney for you.”

MJ continues to glare at him, but this time it’s her consideration glare. Harley doesn’t know when he got good enough at reading her to be able to distinguish between the flavors of her glares, but he finds himself cheesed anyhow.

“I’ll make sure I hit the ice under you if we go down,” Harley offers. “I can be your human shield.”

“Fine,” MJ relents, and tucks her elbow into Harley’s. 

He grins widely and flicks the fold of her beanie. “Alrighty then, let’s get ’er done.”

They waddle away from the wall, not at all skating despite the fact that they are, indeed, on ice skates. They cut crookedly through the echoes of figure eights and axels. 

The whole rink is absolutely sardine-packed, full of tourists hankering for a sight of that monster Christmas tree, all lit up like it’s wrapped in Jelly Bellies. It’s thanks to MJ’s native New York elbows that they even managed to muscle their way to the wall in the first place.

Admittedly, the tree is nice. It’s thick with branches and the lights really are pretty. 

Harley, however, is more partial to the bronze Prometheus watching over them as they hobble. It’s not quite sunset yet and the orange light reflecting off all the lithe angles of him makes something stir in his chest.

“I can’t fucking believe the nerve of them,” MJ says.

Harley jumps a little and they nearly stumble. MJ clings on for dear life. Harley pats her mittened hand soothingly as he asks, “Who?”

“Peter and Johnny,” she spits. “Look at them. I’m gonna puke. Why are they so athletic and sexy?!” 

“I’ve been making a point _not_ to look at them for the sake of my mental health,” Harley says, as if he hasn’t been watching Johnny out of the corner of his eye all afternoon. 

Ice skating again. It feels too soon. 

Harley clears his throat and continues. “If I look at Johnny and he is existing as a corporeal being, I will most certainly have a goddamn coronary on the spot and I do _not_ trust Peter’s first aid skills enough to save me.”

“You shouldn’t. _God_. The fucking audacity is just odious. Why do they get to be _pretty?”_

Peter and Johnny are doing what they do best while in the other’s company: big stupid actions only. Currently, that is manifesting itself in the form of them clutching each other’s hands and spinning in circles, forcing the crowd of tourists to split around them. 

Just as Harley catches Johnny’s eye, the pair of them go flying back onto the ice. They skid, limbs akimbo, until friction stops them. They both start to whoop, pushing up clumsily and reuniting while yelling a chorus of “Dude!”s and “Awesome!”s.

Harley groans. Everything fucking sucks. God is trying to smite him, but slowly and vicariously through two of the biggest morons in New York. That’s the worst type of smiting.

MJ squeezes Harley’s arm comfortingly. “You should tell him.”

Harley shoots her a look. She pushes his glasses up his nose for him as he says, “So what, I skate up to him all, _Howdy, goblin boy who lives in my house, I think we should absolutely ravage each other tonight. No holding back, just wild sex like we’ll never see each other again as long as we live and this is our one shot to make it count._ Now how would that go over, MJ? Riddle me that.”

She stares hard at him. “Honestly it’s Johnny, so I have to think it would work out pretty well.”

Harley squints up at the sky in disdain. “I defy you, stars,” he grumbles.

The two of them promptly go flying again, but this time it’s not their fault. 

It’s all Wanda. She barrels into their backs, wrapping her arms around their shoulders as a few red tendrils of energy keep them from skidding too far. They shriek in pure terror. 

“Hi,” she says sweetly.

“If I didn’t worry you’d possess me for insubordination one day, I might reprimand you in public right now,” Harley says, giving her his best stink eye. 

She presses a kiss to his cheek.

“You are forgiven,” he says graciously.

“This is so fun,” Wanda gushes. Harley has to admit, it’s a lot easier to manage his and MJ’s wobbling weight with the aid of Wanda’s impeccable, red-tinged balance. “I love skating. I used to train when I was quite young, but I haven’t been on the ice in so long. I missed it.”

MJ drops a hand on top of Wanda’s head. Wanda tilts her forehead back, squinting out of one eye like a confused cat. “We’re happy you’re happy,” MJ says solemnly, “but if you let us fall, you _will_ be coming down with us.”

“Bruised ass solidarity squad,” Harley agrees.

Wanda wrinkles her nose. “I never fall. Come, I’ll teach you.”

“I don’t want to be taught,” MJ argues as Wanda does three circles around them and grabs both of their free hands, wrenching another pair of panicked yelps from them. “I want to suck forever and give up and go sit on that nice-looking bench over there where I can’t break my shins.”

“It takes four thousand newtons of force to break a femur,” Harley tells them, and even through his haze of fear he can detect how crazed his voice sounds. “The tibial shaft is divided into thirds. They are the dixal, middle, and proximal regions. A transverse fracture is a straight-across break. A horizontal _oh my god.”_

Wanda lets go of their hands. 

Harley and MJ grab for each other in sheer desperation, faces scrunched-up, horror turning their stomachs like the tide under a midnight moon.

“That was rude,” Harley snaps shrilly. “Very rude. I do not think at all that you should do that ever again.” MJ’s arms are literally going to choke him. “That was a very bad, very mean decision and I would appreciate it if your apology would arrive in a timely manner, taking into account postal traffic during the holiday season.”

“If you think I’m sorry,” Wanda manages between peals of laughter, “you’ve got another think coming, Cowboy.”

“I’m not letting Poppy meet you anymore,” he tells her. “You’re a bad influence. Geez, MJ, take a breath, won’t you?”

She gasps like a fish on dry land. 

He pats the top of her head gently. “We’re still upright, we’re not going anywhere.” They’re being shifted by the constant impact of fucking shoulders and elbows and screaming kids trying to skate right between their longass giraffe legs, but Harley doesn’t think that needs to be mentioned at this time. 

“Let’s go sit down,” Harley offers. “I have vodka in my pocket and I’m not letting Wanda have any because she traumatized us.”

“Trauma,” MJ agrees weakly. “My life flashed before my eyes. I don’t—no more being off solid ground.”

“Fair enough,” Harley agrees. “Good day, Wanda.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m going to find Ned. At least he appreciates my quirky antics.”

Then she’s off, so Harley and MJ slip-and-slide their way out of the rink. MJ doesn’t even move out of the entry gap before tearing her skates off and, since Harley’s not about to leave her alone, he takes his off there, too. Crowds of people trying to push through start to build up at either end, but Harley doesn’t move until MJ is done. At least he’s being impolitely polite for a good cause.

They stumble their sore way to the bench, shoeless as could be, wool socks growing wet at the heels and freezing their toes. They sit gingerly side by side, knees knocking. Harley pulls his glasses off so the lenses can defog themselves.

MJ leans against him with a shiver. “I heard you say vodka and I’m not going to forget that until it’s in my stomach, warming me like I’ve got a hundred tiny Johnny’s running through my bloodstream.”

Harley snorts. He feels around his pockets for the flask. “Shouldn’t we hide before we take it out? We can go find a bathroom somewhere. I’m fairly certain it’s illegal for two seventeen year olds to be drinking in public.”

“I’m _fairly certain_ I don’t give a shit,” MJ says, making grabby hands. 

Harley gives the immediate area another precursory glance. Everyone seems to be plenty distracted by their screaming kids or their heart-eyed lover. He passes MJ the flask and she takes a long sip, then smacks her lips. “Yum,” she says.

“You scare me.”

“I do my best.”

She hands the flask over and Harley takes a long swig of his own, grateful that Tony would never purchase anything less refined than an Absolut for him to steal. It’s smooth like freshly strained milk, or Sunday mornings and Billie Holiday’s crooning voice. He closes his eyes, rests his cheek onto MJ’s shoulder, and traces the burn from the back of his throat down to the pit of his stomach, enjoying every inch of it.

Without opening his eyes, he knocks the flask against her knuckle. “You finish it. I took a big sip.”

“I can smell it on your breath.”

“My breath smells like a goddamn peach.”

“A rotted one.”

“I smell like flowers in early spring and—fuckin’, uh, baked strawberries. Laundry detergent.”

“Sure.”

“I smell like mint toothpaste, you skank!”

MJ responds to that by pointedly taking the last shot. 

“Well,” she says. “Here’s to fun without the fear of our lives ending dramatically, with lots of splintered bones and bloody ice. Actually, that sounds kind of aesthetic. Maybe we should go back out there and tempt God.”

“Have _mercy.”_

* * *

When Johnny and Peter realize MJ and Harley are nowhere to be seen, it’s Peter who immediately suggests they check the benches. 

“Clumsy,” is his only explanation.

Johnny follows his lead, one hand clutching his sleeve to keep up with Peter’s unnecessary speed. 

They actually do find the two of them on the benches, pink-cheeked and bright eyed and laughing so hard they’re breathless. MJ’s got her head on Harley’s chest. Harley’s glasses are on her nose. 

“I just peed a little,” Harley wheezes. “I peed MJ, I pee _hehehe_ d.”

“It’s gonna freeze!” she exclaims, swatting his thigh. “God, fuckin’ nasty ass, _go_ find a bathroom.”

“Are you guys drunk?” Johnny blurts. 

The pair of them peer up in tandem, for a moment looking contrite before busting back into big, loud laughs. 

“I guess that’s a yes,” Peter mumbles, teetering forward on his skates until he’s close enough to MJ to press a kiss to the top of her head. 

She hums happily. “Hi.”

“Hi Em,” he says, staring down at her with nothing short of adoration. “You feeling okay?”

She nods. “Warm. Harley’s gonna teach me to paint better.”

“Is he now?” Peter asks. “I think he’ll have to dry out first, baby.”

“I’m dry,” Harley argues, squinting at Johnny in particular. “I am _so_ dry. I’m New Mexico. I’m a nun’s panties, I’m a raw noodle, I’m—” 

“Stupid as shit,” Johnny agrees, slipping Harley’s glasses off MJ so he can restore them to their rightful owner. He suffers a momentary lapse in his mental facilities and accidentally brushes Harley’s bangs off his forehead once the frames are in place. 

But if Harley finds it weird, he doesn’t show it. He just tilts his head back and smiles up at Johnny serenely. 

“Feelin’ okay?” Johnny asks softly. 

“Mhm. Sorry I didn’t share, but it was an emergency. Wanda nearly _killed_ us.”

“I doubt it was that serious,” Peter scoffs, squeezing himself into the invisible space between MJ and Harley on the bench. They both lean into him like cats searching for milk. 

Johnny takes that cue and sits cross-legged on the ground in front of them. He rests his cheek against Harley’s thigh and closes his eyes. He’s a wee bit tuckered out. His legs feel specifically like the consistency of lime jello. His _knees._ Weebles Wobbles. 

One of Harley’s hands ends up on top of Johnny’s head as MJ says, “No, she almost gave me a heart attack. Like don’t get me wrong, I love her, I’d have her babies if she’d let me, but this was a line crossed. I was catatonic.”

“MJ,” Peter says amusedly, “are you a lightweight?”

“My pride has the thickness of a brick wall. It’s so—it’s so thick that it absorbs half the alcohol before it ever hits my stomach. I have balls of steel and the constitution of pure diamond.” She blinks and frowns. “What was I talking about again?” 

Johnny snorts along with Peter and Harley’s laughter, feeling a spark of joy right down to the bones of him—the kind not even Marie Kondo could understand. MJ squawks in offense and swats them both. They duck away in an exaggerated manner, apologizing like a pair of groveling suitors to Penelope, had they only known their eventual fate. 

Harley’s fingers start to move through Johnny’s hair. It's just a gentle slip through his curls, almost like he’s testing their softness, but it’s soothing and Johnny finds himself completely relaxed by it. One could even go so far as to say he is content. 

Johnny looks up at Harley only to find that the idiot is already looking down at him, hair in his eyes again, glasses a little fogged up. He looks so stupid good in black it makes Johnny want to scream. 

“Let’s skate,” Johnny says to him. 

Harley blanches. “That didn’t go so well for us last time, Jay.”

“I don’t think even _I_ could manage to fall through this rink,” Johnny reasons. If he lets a hand slide onto Harley’s calf and holds the lithe muscle of it in his warmed palm, no one needs to know. “Come on. I won’t _ever_ let you fall, Harls.”

“Too late,” Harley says, just as softly. 

Johnny’s stomach does eight consecutive somersaults and sticks the landing. “You—” 

“Yeah, we fell _hard,”_ MJ interrupts. “Actually, I think I need this bruise on my ass inspected. I might’ve cracked my butt bone. It would be easy. There’s no padding.”

“There’s padding,” Peter assures, voice thin. “There’s definitely—yup, yes, padding. But I can—I will do the heinous work of checking the state of it—”

“I think this is my sign from the universe to get back onto the horse, as it were,” Harley says to Johnny. 

Johnny squeezes Harley’s ankle and grins. 

* * *

“Jesus Harold Christ,” Harley screeches, clinging to Johnny’s hands. “No more horses. No more getting _onto_ horses. No absolutely _not.”_

Johnny skates backwards with ease, content to go slow and lead Harley along. It’s not that he has so much experience skating as it is that he’s acquired quite the sense of balance over the past few years. Flying will do that to a guy. 

“You’re fine,” Johnny reassures, squeezing Harley’s palm. Harley squeezes back doubly tight. 

That is absolutely very much definitely a quite large positive consequence of Harley being a terrible skater: all the holdy hands. 

“Hey,” Johnny says, gliding into Harley’s side rather than in front of him, changing his grip to wrap around Harley’s waist because he does _not_ think he can handle looking into Harley’s eyes as he asks this, “you weren’t this stressed skating in Rose Hill.”

“Nope,” Harley agrees, his breath a little white puff. 

Johnny ups his warmth. “What’s different between here and there?”

“This is—” Harley’s face screws up a little. “I dunno. This is sacred ground. If I fall on the pond back home, no one sees and no one gets one of my skates to their neck. But if I fall here I’m pissing on Elvis’s grave, you know?”

“I don’t, actually.” 

Harley caveman-grunts, but then wraps an arm around Johnny's shoulders so Johnny knows he’s not angry. “It’s illegal for me to make a farce outta fuckin’ Rockefeller Plaza, Jay. Plus these skates are expensive as shit. I’m worried I’ll break one or something.”

“You know Tony would just pay for them if that happened.”

Johnny waves at Wanda and Ned as they go sliding past, arms hooked, deep in conversation. They’re so distracted that they don’t even wave back. 

Harley’s hand travels down to his side, fingers brushing his ribs through Johnny’s thick J. Crew sweater. All Johnny can think about is how it would feel like tapping xylophone keys if there were less layers between them: making music out of their two bodies through touch alone, beating their own rhythm out of the mess of percussion the universe plays at a constant hum. 

“Can’t you just let me be a bummer in peace without rubbing logic all over everything I say? You’re _never_ the logical one. Why do you choose now of all nows to use the communal brain cell?”

“Well, is there something else you want me to rub all over everything you say?” Johnny asks, wide-eyed and innocent. “Because I could do that for you, if you’d like.”

Harley almost slips at that, but catches himself at the last second. He uses it as an excuse to groan again, but it’s a different kind this time—one that sends electric jolts down Johnny’s spine. His stomach feels hot. 

“Fucking whatever, fuckface.”

“Oh my god.” 

Harley tugs him closer and drops his cheek on Johnny’s head, so Johnny slips a warmed hand under the end of Harley’s leather jacket, knotting his fingers in the waffled cotton of his henley. 

They wobble along in silence broken only by the dull shouts of little kids and the crystalline cut of their skates, until Harley says, “Hey, thank you.”

“Whatever for, m’boy?”

“Sticking with me,” Harley elaborates softly. “Helping me out. Being my favorite person of all time and not being mad that MJ and I got drunky-drunk without you.”

Johnny laughs aloud. “I wouldn’t be mad for that, you dumbass.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you were.”

“Well, I’m _not.”_

“Are you sure?”

“Mother of fuck, Harley,” Johnny says through a laugh, tilting his head to catch Harley’s eye. “I’m sure. I’m not mad.”

“Okay.” Harley starts to smile. “Okay, good. Awesome.”

Johnny doesn’t need a drink anyway. His chest carries the same sort of heat he’d get if he’d just downed an entire pot of mulled wine, and he can’t foresee the feeling fading any time soon. 

* * *

The subway ride towards the tower goes like this: Wanda and Ned fall asleep on each other’s shoulders; MJ has her head on Peter’s chest and her hands in his back pocket as they lilt with the stop and start of the train, loose grips on the bars notwithstanding; Johnny and Harley sit in companionable silence, arms pressed together, legs straight out. 

Wanda smiles in her sleep. Ned snores. Peter commandeers a game of I Spy that none of them donate much of their brain energy to. 

Harley has the last to fall asleep, the heaviness of alcohol weighing down his eyes. It’s a pleasant, cotton-fluff sort of feeling, like his insides have been stuffed full of soft, good things. That’s how he wants to be: good from the inside out. 

Good like the mother with deep, purple bags under her eyes sitting a few seats away, who still plays with her baby as they hurtle down the line; good like the teen who offers a fast food bag to the man sleeping sideways along the bench; good like the art on the subway tiles, little navy blue people hurrying to their destinations, all different but all united in the fact that they’re sharing five minutes together—sharing a moment in their lifetimes, and ain’t that its own miracle?

Good enough for Johnny, who has picked up one of Harley’s hands and begun to fiddle with his fingers, tracing the creases in his palm and running soft touches along his tendons. Johnny, who is so good that he could change the world for the better single-handedly, brilliantly, in a shower of sparks. 

Harley stuntedly tilts his head onto Johnny’s shoulder, trying to get closer, hoping some of it will rub off on him. 

Johnny warms up like he thinks that’s what Harley is looking for. 

But Harley is plenty warm. He swallows it, feels it in his muscles, in his veins. He is summer-day-warm beneath the flickering fluorescent lights and layers of sweaters he’s bundled inside. He doesn’t need Johnny’s heat. He doesn’t need anything from Johnny. 

He just needs _him._

The subway rattles along. They sway with the movement, as helpless to the whim of it as they’ve ever been. 

* * *

The days pass too quickly and before they know it, Harley and Johnny are giving everyone goodbye squeezes and promising a Jackbox game night over Zoom any day now. 

“I’m gonna beat your ass at Joke Boat,” Ned sniffles as he hugs Harley goodbye. 

Harley, who always wins Joke Boat, says, “I’m sure you will, buddy.”

Ned pats Harley’s back and then he’s got an armful of Wanda, who gives him a hug so tight and comforting that he wonders if she used her magic to make it so. 

Then it’s MJ, who is the object of his platonic adoration. She yanks his earlobe before letting him go, not a word exchanged—even if the two of them have got sonnets pouring out of their ears, odes hidden behind the browns of their eyes, they don’t need to speak to hear each other. 

Peter comes last, pouting those big puppy dog eyes. Peter has always had a special ability to make Harley want to remold the world however Peter would like it shaped. Hot dog trees, money bushes, free guac at Chipotle—Harley would make it happen for him, no questions asked.

“Is it gay to kiss the homies goodbye?” Harley asks, surprisingly overcome with feelies in his tummy. 

“No,” says Peter, “but you’re gay anyway, so.”

Harley gives him a big, loud kiss on the cheek as they hug, swaying side to side a little. Then they pat each other on the back like Real Men. 

“Text me or I’ll web you to your bed,” Peter says thickly. 

“You’d enjoy that too much, you freak,” Harley says, gripping the back of Peter’s neck tightly. 

Peter squeezes him one more time and Harley scrunches his face before letting go. 

“Godspeed, my friend,” Peter says, patting his cheek. 

Harley gives him a little salute. 

And just like that, he and Johnny are packed into a car and off to JFK. 

JFK is _terrible._ It’s the worst airport in the world, no cap. It’s so bad and packed and smelly and dirty. It’s an absolute _miracle_ they’re not late for their flight. 

But they make it, and they curl up into their seats in the same way they’ve started to become experts at, sweatpants and sweatshirts and beanies and eye bags. When they pull up the movie screen, Harley looks over at Johnny. 

He’s squinting as he scrolls through the selection, a thoughtful little crease forming between his eyebrows. It makes Harley want to yodel into a canyon, or do something stupid like smooth it out.

Or like, kiss it. 

“Can we watch Sleeping Beauty?” Johnny asks softly, almost nervous, and even Harley isn’t so oblivious that he can’t tell there’s something there. A nostalgia, maybe; a memory that Harley can’t see into no matter how many times he wipes the condensation away. 

“Abso-frickin’-fruitly, Hot Stuff,” Harley says, pulling out a pair of headphones for them to share. 

Johnny smiles at him like he’s handed over the moon. When the movie plays, he links their pinkies together on the armrest. 

That’s how they stay for the rest of the flight: wind under the plane’s wings, soundless and straight-ahead, connected through the comfort of an old movie. Johnny’s eyes on the screen, Harley’s on Johnny’s profile as he mouths along, _You’ll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream._

Harley’s never been a sucker for dreaming, but God, he’d like to sink into this one and never wake up. 

* * *

They take a cab back to the farm and Johnny pays the ridiculously steep fare. It’s night when they climb out of the car, the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to their clothes after jumping off the ugly upholstered seats. 

Harley waves goodbye to the driver and then flips him off after he’s a little ways down the road.

“What was that for?” asks Johnny laughingly.

“Don’t tell me you _wanted_ to listen to _Play That Funky Music_ eight times in a row.”

Johnny snarfs. “I think he zoned out when we hit town.”

“This place has that effect on folks,” Harley agrees with a nod, grabbing his suitcase. “The average mortal mind can’t take it.”

Johnny rolls his eyes, but he thinks there’s probably some kind of truth to that: Rose Hill is desolate; the houses are scattered across acres of snow-covered land, the roads are empty and go on forever. If ever there was a complete antithesis of New York, Rose Hill would be it. 

He thought he’d be happy to be back, but in the pit of his stomach there’s a twisted little ball of sorrow. He misses the city. He misses the noise and the traffic and how everyone there knows at least ten curse words in five different languages. He misses the lights in the skyline—New York doesn’t need stars when its got a view like that—and feels inexplicably bitter at having gotten a taste of his old life only to go back to _this._

Not that _this_ —the rickety front porch steps that squeak when they step on them, the wind chimes echoing against the silent night, the muffled sound of the TV bleeding through the front door—isn’t great. It’s just so startlingly different, like going from boiling hot water to freezing cold. If Johnny were made of glass, he would shatter.

Instead he shivers while Harley fumbles with the keys in the lock. Inside it’s dark, aside from the TV. It’s playing some infomercial that looks like it was shot in the nineties. Johnny breathes in the lived-in smell: vanilla candles, burnt sage, laundry detergent. His lip quirks up.

Harley kicks the door shut with his boot. “Mama!” He calls. “You up?”

“Kitchen!” comes Ruby’s voice, faint around the corner. 

But she meets them halfway, wiping her damp hands on the skirt of her waitressing uniform. “Cricket,” she breathes, beaming as she pulls Harley into her arms. 

“Howdy,” Harley says, pressing a kiss to her cheek as he leans into her embrace. “How was your New Year’s?”

“Oh, fine,” she says. “Pop and I ate too much ice cream and fell asleep around ten.”

Harley grins. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

Ruby whacks his arm. Harley laughs and brushes past her to bring their shit further inside, while Johnny stands there like an awkward fowl, unsure what to do. 

Ruby answers that question for him by pulling him into a hug that’s no less tight than the one she gave Harley. “Hi, sugar.”

“Hi Mama,” he says, and if their hug lasts a few seconds longer, if he maybe leans against her a little more than he should so that he doesn’t have to carry all that weight alone, no one needs to know. 

She kisses his cheek. “You two hungry? I’ve got leftover casserole in the fridge.”

Harley’s face brightens. “Tuna?”

“Yessir.”

“I would literally rather chop my own arm off and eat it,” he says to her, and she gives him another whack. 

“Ungrateful boy,” Ruby mutters at his cackling form. “Sometimes I think he got switched out with a changeling baby.”

“It would explain the pointy ears,” Johnny remarks.

Ruby grins and grabs him by the hand. “Come on, take off that wet coat and those muddy boots, would you? I’ll get you something hot to drink and you can tell me all about New York.”

Johnny obliges her. He can literally feel his bones slowly settling like an old house. The longer he’s here, the easier it is to breathe. He practically inhales whatever mush it is she puts in front of him and Harley is no better; they’d neglected to eat on the plane because airline food sucks, plain and simple. 

Johnny tells Ruby about how Harley fell on his ass when they went skating. Harley tells Ruby about how Johnny pushed him into the pool. She tells them about how Poppy burnt a batch of cookies so bad the oven caught fire. 

“Sounds about right,” Harley mutters darkly. 

That’s about when Johnny announces he’s too tired to stay awake. It’s not completely true, but he’s weary down to his spine and knows if he doesn’t leave to recharge soon, he’ll be completely drained and just shut down altogether.

Jesus, Harley was right. He really is a fucking machine.

Ruby gives him another kiss goodnight and Harley ends up following him to the second floor. Johnny pauses underneath the ladder and turns around. 

He could do it right now, with the moonlight pouring through the uncurtained window, with Harley half asleep and still muttering about how disgusting tuna is. He could. He _should._

He doesn’t.

“Night Harley,” he whispers. 

Harley blinks as if coming back into focus. “Hmm? Oh, night night, Jay.”

Something inside Johnny kind of withers. He nods and silently climbs up to his room while Harley stumbles into his own. Johnny wonders: does Harley really like him that way, or is he just reading into things? Maybe he’s just a brother to Harley, just a really good buddy, a best bro. 

Johnny’s heart rents. He wipes his cheeks dry and, instead of miserably crawling into his bed, he lifts the skylight window and shimmies onto the roof.

The cold is like a slap in the face and Johnny welcomes it. He leans back against the chimney and pulls his knees to his chest, tilting his head up.

The sky is clear and scattered with stars like diamonds on a black velvet dress. Johnny still doesn’t know all the constellations, no matter how many times Harley’s tried to teach him their names. 

Sue is up there somewhere, and Reed. The kids. Hell, maybe Ben too, but whole and real and alive. Johnny’s blood boils a little thinking about it. It’s getting harder and harder to understand why Ben is staying away. They were family, weren’t they? They were best friends, they were brothers. 

Johnny wipes his face again, frustrated. “I miss you,” he whispers, and isn’t sure if he’s saying that to Sue or Ben or his friends a thousand miles away. 

He just misses. There’s a big black hole for it in the pit of his stomach, a chasm that gets wider and deeper every day they’re gone. 

_Come back,_ he thinks, but it’s too stupid to say out loud. _Please come back to me. I need you._

  
  



	4. FEBRUARY

  
“reasons to not kiss him: 1. you weren’t raised to love tender. 2. when he’s around all you do is tremble. when he’s around you want to get on your knees. look how much power he has over you. it’s dangerous. 3. he’s too good at forgiving and you’re too good at violence. 4. you know what they say about monsters. you know what happens to the boys who love them. are you going to do that to him? 5. your hands don’t know how to be gentle. think about the last beautiful thing that shattered in your palms. the fresh rosebuds crumbling between your fingers like a bruise. you wolf-boy, you war machine. you wouldn’t know how to hold something magic and not destroy it. 6. if you hurt him it might kill you 7. if you hurt him you might kill yourself. 8. you are very bad at rehabilitation. this is one addiction you’d fail to give up. he’s going to ruin you for all other kisses and all other boys and you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to forget his name. 9. you still aren’t sure he isn’t a dream. 10. if you kiss him, you might wake up.reasons to kiss him: 1. because he’s beautiful. 2. because he asked. 3. because he preceded please with, i’m not afraid of you.”

—yes & no; natalie wee 

* * *

**Harley Keener’s Fourteen-Day Plan of Very Valentine’s Sorta Vibes**

Feb. 1 — Sling some pink and red tinsel shit around the house

Feb. 2 — Anguish about whether getting him a gift is weird or not

Feb. 3 — Anguish over how fucking. PRETTY he is. fucking GOD!

Feb. 4 — More anguish. Just, generally, anguish to every degree

Feb. 5 — Pull your shit together, Keener. 

Feb. 6 — Make little heart cookies or something. It’s love season, it won’t be weird. Remember to get that good grass-fed butter from Miss Jo’s house and some frozen strawberries or something 

Feb. 7 — ONE WEEK LEFT PANIC BIG PANIC!!

Feb. 8 — Convince yourself you’re going to confess to him on the fourteenth. What the fuck could go wrong. 

Feb. 9 — SO MUCH COULD GO WRONG DO NOT CONFESS

Feb. 10 — Call MJ in a panic, probably. She will give you very good advice and then you’ll spiral and stress bake and make another dance TikTok with some of Mama’s weird knick knacks strategically placed in the background to put the audience On Edge

Feb. 11 — Decide to give him some drawings. A collection of Johnny Storms in all of Harley’s favorite states: asleep on the couch with his hair in his eyes while drooling on the cushions like a hooligan, wrapped around the sheepies in the barn when it’s early morning and little stripes of golden light flit through the planks of the walls, his drunk laugh where he throws his head back and his neck looks all fnnfgnghgngng, etc.

Feb. 12 — Get Poppy and Mama some chocolates or something. A nice card, make ’em cry. Sweet sweet pain

Feb. 13 — Convince yourself you’re fucking nuts. Consider burning the drawings. Decide to Not give them to Johnny because it’s as good as handing him your bleeding fucking heart on a platter. Probably cry and call Peter, who will give you shit advice that you’ll ignore but still appreciate because he’s your dumb stupid butthead best friend and you love him or whatever 

Feb. 14 — Leave an offering for Eros and fucking pray. 

* * *

“Okay okay okay,” Johnny says in a panic, “stop moving! Here, grab that paper towel. Hurry, oh _fuck,_ it’s gonna drip _everywhere._ A mess! A messy mess!”

Harley leans as far as he can for the roll while still keeping his free hand in Johnny’s. He passes it over and Johnny rips some off to wipe the excess glob of olive green nail polish from Harley’s fingertip. 

Johnny sighs in exaggerated relief, wiping nonexistent sweat from his brow. “That was a close one.”

“Would’ve ruined everything if I was all smudged up. How would I ever get a date to the Sadie Hawkins dance looking like Patricia from Spongebob?”

“If a girl is asking you to a dance with the hopes of wooing you,” Johnny starts, one eyebrow flicking up, “you’ve got another whole _world_ of problems to address.”

“I simply cannot be wooed,” Harley lies daintily, slipping into an admittedly poor transatlantic accent. He shuts his eyes for the sake of the character, ignores how the room starts to spin in earnest, and looks over his shoulder demurely like the ingenue of a noir film. “Many a valiant soul has tried, but my will is simply too great. No suitor can sway me. Call me Penelope.”

“Crúz?”

Harley’s eyes pop open. “Uh, no? The one from The fuckin’ Odyssey, you dope. Is there even another valid Penelope out there?”

“Yes,” Johnny says emphatically. 

“Pray tell.”

“The dragon from Barbie as Rapunzel?!”

Harley rolls his eyes and smacks his forehead with his palm. “How could I ever forget.”

“Because you’re a fool.”

“I repent, I atone.”

“You a- _tune._ Play me a song, guitar boy.”

“If you think I can play the guitar in this state? Besides, aren’t we in the middle of something?”

Johnny blinks, then looks at Harley’s hand, which he happens to still be holding. He flushes a little and says, “Oh yeah. Next time, though.” 

“Can I—can I even play guitar with this shit on? Like this? Painty fingers?” Harley wriggles the fingers on his already-finished hand so the slight shimmer of the varnish catches the light. 

And Johnny does that ridiculous cackling thing, his head falling back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He squeezes Harley’s hand. “Yes,” he wheezes. “You can. You can play guitar with your nails done, you _dumbass.”_

“Well how would I know?” Harley demands, aghast. “Laughing at me like I’m some kinda’ chicken-fuckin’ fool. I’ve never worn it before! Poppy never has it on when she plays bass. I’m utilizing my context clues, you rusty drain pipe.”

Johnny presses Harley’s knuckles against the tip of his nose and keeps laughing silently. Harley loves how clingy Johnny gets when he’s drunk. He wishes it could be like this all the time: leaning into each other’s space, grinning for no reason, a pocket full of mischief and potentially destructive intentions. 

“Enough vodka has been consumed this evening, methinks,” Harley declares, bumping the crown of his head against Johnny’s. He’s starting to get cotton mouth real bad. They definitely should have stopped drinking hours ago, but it’s three in the morning and Sunday is on its way, and it’s _raining:_ pounding down hard against the roof, Harley’s absolute favourite sound—coupled with the Billie Holiday record playing in the background. It’s a little warped and her voice keeps jumping octaves, but it’s all part of the ambiance,the vibes, the feelies floating around the air like little dust mites of love. 

Said feelies are very good: the loft is warm and thick with the scent of the lavender and vanilla candles Johnny lit a while ago. His fairy lights cast an amber glow against the navy blue of the night, just visible through the skylight. 

They’re down on the rug, the handle between them like some sort of holy churchy paraphernalia, sacred to touch and taste. Nail polish bottles in all colors are strewn around them, scattered between unused q-tips and little cotton balls. 

The room continues to spin faintly. Harley’s skull feels like it’s been stuffed with pillow fluff, or freshly spun wool. His chest feels light. He’s happy as fuck. 

Which, like, could he _not_ be? Johnny’s here, sitting knee-to-knee with him, a hand loose around Harley’s wrist, his heat enfolding them like the most comfortable throw blanket Harley’s ever touched. It’s like being submerged in a pot of mulled wine, and it’s the best damn thing he’s ever tasted—sweet and spiced and just the right temperature—and it won’t give him a headache after he finishes a glass of it like that Barefoot shit his Mama buys from the supermarket. 

Johnny is still grinning, drawing Harley’s eyes back to him when he hums. “That vodka is very—vodka. Very, _very_ vodka.” He pulls away a little so he can meet Harley’s eyes. “Wanna keep going?”

“Hm?” Harley asks, distracted by the way the orange lights reflect off Johnny’s highlighted cheekbones, by the long shadows of his lashes, by the freckles scattered across his nose. Thank Christ he’s stopped covering those up with concealer because _wow,_ they give Harley butterflies. 

“Want me to finish your nails?” Johnny clarifies. 

Harley smiles a little. That sounds lovely. Johnny always looks so pretty with his nails done. He oughta try and look pretty for once, too. For Johnny. 

Maybe that’ll do it. Make it happen. If he’s pretty. 

“Yes,” he says surely. “Make me beautiful.”

“You are beautiful,” Johnny says, all _you’re such a dingdong, Harley._ He lifts Harley’s hand right up to the tip of his nose so he can paint it right, squinting through his drunkenness. “Super duper pretty.” 

Harley huffs. “Nah, I’m a dirty hick.”

“A _pretty_ dirty hick—oh fuck, I fucked up again. _Fuck._ ”

Harley rips more paper towels. “You’re shit at this.”

“I’m _drunk.”_

“I know. Me too.”

“How very twinning of us.”

Johnny finishes off Harley’s nails. Harley watches him do it, and listens when Johnny tells him to keep his fingers spread wide to keep from smudging the paint. 

There’s a moment of them sitting in silence, both staring down at the messy finished product. 

Johnny’s voice is a little broken when he asks, “Do you really think you’re not beautiful?” 

Harley looks up in surprise. The room wavers around them, but Johnny is so clear, and so earnest: big blue eyes burning right through him. Harley says, “Um.”

Johnny makes a pained noise. 

“It’s—I know I’m other stuff,” Harley hurries to assure. “I’m smart and uh, artistic, good with the animals and, um...” Harley runs out of things. 

“Dude, are you like, blind?” Johnny demands, gaping. “Are you deaf? Are you fucking Helen Keller?”

“No, I’m a virgin.”

Johnny ignores that. “Harley, what? Sincerely: what the fuck.”

Harley’s shoulders climb towards his ears. 

“You’re—” Johnny groans something that sounds like _hngngn_ which goes right to Harley’s dick, mortifyingly enough. “You’re—you’re _everything._ Your stupid ears! And your big terrible caterpillar brows! And the smile, the one where your eyes crinkle up at the corners? Tell me you know that one, it’s my favourite. Harley, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Harley shakes his head a little, face going hot. He rubs his sleeve over his nose to hide his blush, glaring down at the dusty wooden floor. 

“Look at me,” Johnny instructs. 

Harley doesn’t. 

“I’m going to set your socks on fire.”

Harley looks at him, blazing like an avenging angel without having to catch alight. 

“You are very gorgeous to me,” Johnny says urgently, pointing a finger in the air in a poor imitation of that stupid _TikTok_ of all things. 

Harley can’t help it: he fucking guffaws, wheezing loud enough to carry through the insulated walls and down into his Mama’s bedroom. He doesn’t even care. His cheeks are warm and he’s happy and he’s got little spurts of baby’s breath blooming in his chest like spring is coming early. 

Johnny thinks he’s gorgeous. 

_Golly._

Johnny smiles at him, just looking, before his gaze flits away. He grabs the Absolut bottle and takes a short swig. 

Harley watches his throat bob as he swallows. He stares at the bead of moisture on his lips before catching himself and asking, “Didn’t we agree to no more drinking?” 

Johnny grunts a little. “I never consented to you cutting me off.”

“Well I never consented to you not consenting to me cutting you off.”

“I’m—what?”

“What?” Harley stares at him moonily, feeling another grin forming. He shakes his head, his cheeks aching from all the smiling, and squishes his face between his hands. “I dunno! I don’t.”

“That’s okay,” Johnny says, slurring a little but still fucking glowing, still radiant; he’s midday sun and sunset and dawn all rolled into one pocket full of multitudes, “you don’t have to know.”

“I know some things,” Harley assures him. 

The air around them changes, growing serious. Those words have intention behind them. Harley is all intention, but he pisses himself at the thought of acting on any of it. 

His brain says, _good one, stupid._

“Like what?” Johnny asks. 

His brain says, _you walked right into this one._

Harley blinks. “The sky is blue because when air molecules scatter sunlight, the blue component of the visible light spectrum oscillates at the efficient frequency necessary to be detected by the human eye.”

“Oh.” The corner of Johnny’s mouth drops a little. These are the things that Harley hedges his every bet upon: the corner of Johnny’s mouth and the places it goes. 

“Your eyes are blue,” Harley blurts, “and that’s important.”

“Yeah?” 

Harley nods, swallowing thickly. “It’s—yeah, it’s. Yeah.” He takes a breath and says, “I know _that_ more than anything.”

There’s something complicated in Johnny’s eyes, a morphing electric storm. It’s shuttered away after a short pause, and Harley’s mouth tastes bitter as a result. 

“Well, the one thing _I_ know for sure is that I’ve gotta brush my teeth now or I’ll feel like the stinkiest garbage raccoon in a hundred different ways by the time I wake up tomorrow,” Johnny says, pushing himself off the floor. Just like that the conversation is over, gravity melted down like a candle burned to the bottom of a wick. 

_That’s it?_ Harley wants to demand, inexplicably crushed. _That’s all you know? You don’t know me?_

Johnny stretches his arms above his head and mewls a little. His shirt rides up with the movement, flashing a stripe of toned golden tummy, but Harley is too distracted by the way Johnny’s chin tucks and his lips scrunch to the side to notice it. 

Johnny holds a hand out. 

Harley stares at it. 

“Come on, Cowboy,” Johnny says, a loose smirk on his lips. “Up and at ’em. If you think I’m letting you in my bed with vodka breath, you’ve got another think coming.”

Harley’s stomach drops and he takes Johnny’s hand, letting himself be pulled up. 

They brush their teeth shoulder to shoulder. Johnny flicks water at Harley’s reflection in the mirror, which escalates into a small-scale duel of honor with their toothbrushes as their weapons, the both of them giggling and shushing each other, hands gripping each other’s sleeves, socked ankles bumping the cabinet doors. 

Then Johnny pulls him back to the loft. The ladder creaks on the way up and the both of them are muffling snorts of laughter into the collars of their t-shirts. 

They blow out the candles, return the nail polish to Johnny’s stash, and crack the windows just slightly. The fresh air makes Harley feel like he’s flying. It’s crisp and cold as it mingles with the musty warmth of the bedroom. Harley wants to throw his arms out and spin in it. 

He looks at Johnny instead. Johnny looks back. There’s nothing else but that. 

They climb into bed. It’s like being wrapped up in a Johnny burrito: that slightly singed scent mixed with something delicate—petrichor and rose water. Harley lays flat on his back and the whole bed spins beneath him. Usually the sensation terrifies him; he doesn’t like it when his feet can’t touch the ground. Packed dirt; he was made to run through cornfields and orchards, tripping over half-rotted apples, chasing a blue jay for a mile straight. 

But Johnny grabs a fistful of his sleeve and Harley is certain that’s the most grounded he’s ever been, the realest he’ll ever be, the most authentic. 

He can’t help smiling through it. 

He turns his head towards Johnny. 

Johnny meets his eyes and he’s rewarded with a flash of teeth in the dark. 

Harley scoots a little closer and looks back at the ceiling—at the skylight, a blur of deep violet and inky black. 

He closes his eyes and lets the warmth of Johnny’s skin—of a good night, of words left unsaid but hopefully heard—carry him into sleep. 

* * *

Harley groans the minute he’s conscious. “Mother of _fuck.”_ He’s a fucking _bruise._ There is no human, there is only bruise. 

“Welcome to Pain Town, population us,” Johnny says dryly. He rolls towards Harley, who can’t even open his eyes all the way. He’s not ready for human interaction yet, much less Johnny-centric interaction. 

“We fucked up. Oh god. Oh fuck,” Harley gropes blindly for his glasses but comes up holding Johnny’s hand. Oh well, no big. 

“Hmm, shut up.”

“ _Eu pardon?”_

“Too loud,” Johnny whines. “M’gonna boot in your sheets.”

“If you boot in my sheets I’ll use them to prison climb my way up the water tower so I can swan dive off the top.”

There’s a pause. 

“I will _not_ boot in your sheets.”

Harley groans, rolls onto his side, and tucks his face into Johnny’s shoulder. “End my misery. Can we sleep for a thousand years?”

He feels Johnny’s hand settle on the back of his neck, fingers playing with the curls at the nape, making the skin there tingle. It’s a little extra warmth and a lot of extra comfort. “Make it a million years and you’re on.”

“I don’t know, I might have a dentist appointment somewhere in there.”

Johnny snorts and flicks Harley’s earlobe. “Shut up.” 

“I’m _kidding,_ ” Harley says, blindly burrowing deeper against Johnny’s form. “You and me for a million years sounds like a winning combo, I promise.” He hears Johnny’s breathing do a weird hitching thing and cracks an eye open, but that nearly kills him, what with the sun literally fucking vomiting through the skylight. He hisses like a vampire and returns to the safety of Johnny’s body. 

“A winning combo,” Johnny repeats. “You and me.”

“Don’t forget the very long nap,” Harley reminds him. “Like, Pan style. We’ll be lying in a forest for so long we’ll wake up inside of trees.” 

“Hmm.” 

Just like that, they’re out for the count. 

Turns out Harley was right, of course: the combination could win a fucking Nobel Prize. There’s never been a mixture of things more perfect in all the spun histories of this ancient earth. 

Him and Johnny and a million years. He could get used to the idea. 

* * *

Sometimes Johnny feels exhaustion settle like burnt caramel over the balls of his joints. He has to stop, sticky and slow. 

He’s an orange slice that’s been suckled right to the pithy skin, a candle burned down to its last inch of wick, a sweater that’s been pulled to the last strand. 

Opening his eyes is an ordeal. Filling his lungs with oxygen is a huge strain on his lifestyle. Working around the weight of himself is an endurance sport he isn’t built to withstand. The very concept of him is overdone, overwrought, overridden. 

But then Harley comes marching into a room, scratching his armpit or pulling up his boxers or blowing his nose like a foghorn, and everything turns golden: apricot skin in August, ripened and waiting on the tree. Harley fills everything up with his endlessly, stupidly long limbs; fills that echoing chapel between Johnny’s ears with his obnoxious voice, with warbled scales and clumsily plucked guitar strings; fills Johnny’s chest to bursting when he smiles with that twisted front tooth, or goes to push his glasses up his nose even when they’re still sitting on his nightstand, or runs his hands through his hair until it stands straight on end. 

Johnny doesn’t feel _awake_ then, but he feels a little stirred, a little disposed to dip his toes back into the lake of that: the vibrancy and sweetness and delicate heat, rather than the hellish swamp crap lapping around his calves as he walks. 

Harley can’t make him want to live—maybe nothing can—but Harley makes him want to _be alive,_ and isn’t that all the difference?

* * *

The fourteenth of February comes quietly. 

The night before, Harley sleeps in hour-long increments, tossing and turning, frustrated and too cold in his sheets. He glares at the resplendent orange glow of his salt lamp with half a mind to push it right off his nightstand. 

For probably the fiftieth time, he mentally runs through the plan he and Peter had settled for: breakfast, _Thirteen Going on Thirty,_ lots of topical snacks, some time in the barn because Johnny is obsessed with the animals these days, a fancy dinner, and then The Giving of The Gift. 

The Gift is supposed to coincide with Harley’s confession. It’s a confession of its own, really: the drawings, the pages; a small fraction of Harley’s favorite Johnnys. But really, how could he capture all the best ones when the living one is so full of multitudes? How can Harley ever compete? 

He gives up the struggle for sleep at six. He trudges out to the barn to give the sheepies their morning kisses, milk Lucy, and fill up the troughs. Then he showers, and at seven he finds himself wrist-deep in a bowl of cinnamon-roll dough. 

If there’s one thing that never changes, it’s a tried and true recipe. 

Harley kneads until his elbows are weak and weary. He covers the dough, presses his forehead against the flour-dusted counter, and waits. 

* * *

Johnny’s morning goes like this:

He wakes up. Panics. Washes his face twice and does a gel mask when he realizes how splotchy his nerves are making him. 

He tries to get dressed. Harley has seen almost all of his best sweaters at this point. Is red too on the nose? He pauses in his closet. “Hey Siri, text Wanda. ‘Is red too on the nose?’” 

She says yes and so he ends up dressed in a navy shirt. Wanda says it’ll bring out his eyes and frankly, Johnny agrees. He steals one of Harley’s oatmeal-colored cardigans to wear over it. The scent calms him: yeast and leather and cinnamon. 

He starts towards the kitchen but ends up completely derailed by Poppy, who grabs him by the elbow and yanks him into her bedroom, talking a mile a minute even though he’s still too drowsy to comprehend whatever the hell it is that she’s saying. 

That’s where he sits now, a little gobsmacked and a lot on edge, watching the slideshow she’s prepared for him about the girl she’s asking out tonight. 

Her name is Marcy. She’s got hair like an ink spill and bright, angular eyes. Poppy says she once kicked a guy in the nuts for calling her a bitch. Johnny approves on principle. 

It doesn’t hurt that Poppy has this fiery blush across her cheeks, or that her words come out blurred at double-speed the way Harley’s do when he’s excited, or that she has a shelf in the corner for all of her cowgirl hats. Johnny literally cannot stop staring at them. There are five of them. He hates that he’s starting to think they’re kinda cute in a _western chic_ type of way. 

Poppy whacks him with the end of her pointer. It’s one of those sparkly Scholastic Book Fair things with the Mickey Mouse gloved hand on the end. “Are you paying attention? You cannot be distracted, this is of the utmost importance to me and my future happiness. It is _paramount_ to the future of our surrogate sibling-hood that your eyes are _on me._ ” 

“I’m paying attention,” Johnny says dutifully, nodding. “So much attention. A ridiculous amount, actually.” 

“What’d I just say, then?”

His gaze flits to the projection on her wall. “Uh… something about avoiding grand gestures?” 

Poppy groans and whacks him again, prompting him to yelp embarrassingly. He dives forward and grabs her around the waist, pulling her down onto the carpet with him. They’re a mess of limbs and shrill shrieks and knees in very delicate places as he wrestles her with all of the fake aggression and none of the force. 

This feels like him and Peter. It feels like him and Wanda. It feels like family he has no claim to, but selfishly enjoys nonetheless. 

It doesn’t quite feel like Sue and Reed. 

They were how he used to define family. They were in love beyond anything, even when they had their rough patches. The kids were their ultimate showing of that: their genius, their drive, their enormous hearts combined into two little bastards that would have taken over the world someday if they’d just left their feet on solid ground a little while longer. 

This is different. And Johnny is weirdly okay with that.

Poppy props herself up onto her elbows, blowing hair out of her mouth. She pouts when it stubbornly refuses to move, stuck in her gloss as it is, and glares at him like it’s his fault. “Dinkus.”

Johnny reaches up and moves them for her like it’s easy.

Maybe that’s because it _is_ easy. 

That doesn’t change the fact that it aches, dully; a chronic pain he can’t swallow a pill for. He’s got a bad case of the eternal ouchies. 

“Thanks,” Poppy says, and then socks him in the stomach for good measure. As he _oof_ s, knees to his chest, she gets up and returns to her post. “I trust you’ll be paying proper attention now?” 

Johnny nods, curling up onto his side. She has such sharp knuckles. The kid could take on half the Sonic squad and win. “Scout’s honour.”

“You were never a Boy Scout.”

He frowns. “Wait, that’s what that means? I thought it was just something people said.” 

Poppy grins wickedly and continues, which turns into her running to the kitchen to grab them some of whatever Harley is baking. They spend too long shoving strawberry-cardamom rolls down their face holes like their lives depend on it. 

Naturally, this turns into her spitting color block patterns at the wall with her projector, which she plants Johnny in front of. She guides him into various magazine-cover poses he’s offensively familiar with. The only difference between then and now is everything. 

It feels like it’s been eighty-two years since he even interacted with the press. He hadn’t realized how much that shit grated on him until it was gone. 

Not that he doesn’t love being loved—who wouldn’t love that? It’s all he craves, really. He just wants to fill his heart up every time it’s drained, over and over like an hourglass. 

But the constant questions, the airbrushing, the reminders that his waist-measurements were smaller last month, the starving himself for days on end so his six pack would show in pictures. He doesn’t miss any of _that._

He likes it like this: Poppy’s crappy iPhone camera and her white wall and her lavender cowgirl hat on his head. Smiles, unstoppable laughter, and a house full of love in three vastly different but still potent ways. 

He has this. And he doesn’t think he’d trade it for anything without a fight. 

Later, she’s painting a rose-clay face mask onto his cheeks while he holds his baby hairs back because she lost all of her headbands. Everything is sticky from the honey she added to the powder. 

“I hate it here,” she complains when she’s finished, screwing the cap back into the container. “I just wanna live in a big city where no one knows me and I can do whatever I want.”

Johnny hums. He settles on his stomach so he can spy Barnabus under the bed. “Cities aren’t as fun as the movies make them out to be.”

“Well, no, but it’d still be nice to live in a place where no one knows who I am, and I don’t have to act a certain way or talk a certain way. I mean, how do you think these hickfolk would react if I told them I like girls? Because I can tell you one thing: they definitely wouldn’t be as chill as you.”

Johnny frowns and then stops himself. He picks a little bit of fluff off the rug. “It’s really that bad here, huh?”

“It’s always bad in rural areas,” Poppy states matter of factly. “These people live cushy lives in their isolated communities and don’t like change. They don’t like things they can’t understand. You and me? We don’t fit in here. We’re not meant for milking cows and shooting guns and drinking ourselves under the table at the Shrunken Head every night.”

Johnny supposes she has a point. She’s also presented him with yet another reason to _not_ kiss Harley Keener: it could hurt him in more ways than one.

“Tell you what,” Johnny says, worming across the carpet to lie down next to her, “how about this summer you come visit the city with me?”

Poppy’s eyes light up. “Really? You’d take me?”

Johnny snorts. “Shit, I’d take you anywhere, Poppy June. I’m gonna have to hide you in my suitcase when I go off to college.”

“ _Oh my god,”_ she gushes, “I would _love_ to go to NYU.”

Johnny grins. He pokes her purple-painted cheek and she yelps, frantically smoothing out the little smudge he’d made. “You’re barbaric.” 

“I know, I disgust myself.”

“Good,” she swipes the excess clay onto his arm and Johnny gasps with fake affront. Poppy starts laughing, ridiculous and maniacal, and Johnny would do anything for her. Really, he would.

* * *

mom & dad

**sgt. jones**

status update?

**heeeere’s johnny! storm**

no smoochies 

**sgt. jones**

oh my god are you kidding me 

it’s been MONTHS

**heeeere’s johnny! storm**

i know

scurd

**pickled pepper**

leave him alone he’s in a fragile state 

**sgt. jones**

oh please 

johnny are you in a fragile state?

**heeeere’s johnny! storm**

….

yes

**sgt. jones**

NO! 

buck up! kiss the boy

**pickled pepper**

no

buck the opposite way

down

i don’t know why i forgot the word down 

but anyway 

no kiss! not if you’re not ready!!

**sgt. jones**

who says he’s not ready

Johnny are you ready

**heeeere’s johnny! storm**

hnnnnggggg

no

**sgt. jones**

disappoint 

**pickled pepper**

i support u john boy 

**heeeere’s johnny! storm**

oh dear jesus don’t call me that

**pickled pepper**

:D

john boy john boy john boy

_pickled pepper has changed ‘heeeere’s johnny! storm’s name to ‘john boy’_

_john boy has left the chat_

* * *

At one, at three, and at five. 

Those are all the times Johnny sees Harley. It’s only ever for a minute at a time: just a flash of his face around the door, pink-cheeked from the heat of baking or the chill of stepping outside. Johnny can smell something wafting from the kitchen, bready and sweet. Whatever it is, it’s gotta be complex if it’s taking up his whole day. 

“Hi,” Johnny says every time, a smile tearing free, an anxious patter in his chest. 

“Hey,” Harley will say back, or, “Afternoon,” or, “’the hell could you still be doing in here?” 

That last time he’s got the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to him and Johnny still has Poppy’s face mask cracking on his cheeks. 

“Pardon, good fellow?” 

Harley doesn’t look mad. He doesn’t look much of anything, actually, and he steps back out without answering like he didn’t hear at all. 

Johnny’s stomach starts to writhe. “Did I—?”

Poppy shakes her head, braids flying. “He’s just bein’ Harley.”

That isn’t right, though, because while Harley may be very _Harley,_ he also gets this gleam in his eye when he sees Poppy hurl peas at Johnny’s head, or when Johnny starts explaining different ages of fashion trends to her like he’s giving a homily to a gospel reading. Harley likes that they get along, it’s important to him. 

Maybe he knows that Johnny’s hiding, that the reason he’s letting Poppy occupy his every hour with her very fourteen-year-old whims is to keep from seeing Harley with a pink heart-shaped garland over his shoulders, grabbing him by the belt loops, kissing him. 

Poppy brings him back to Earth by shoving her phone screen under his nose. She’s edited him to look like that meme where Squidward is wrapped in grey shit with a little green sprout coming out of the top of his head. 

He adores it. He wants it framed. 

“I fucking hate you.” 

Poppy throws her head back and cackles. 

Johnny grins and decides to let himself be a coward just this once. He stays in her pink-patterned room and hides for a little while longer. 

* * *

Harley has six loaves of bread on the counter and a seventh coming together in the bowl in front of him. 

Mama is gonna kill him. 

He pounds the dough with his knuckles anyway. 

The kitchen smells like cinnamon raisin and whole wheat and sesame seeds. His hands are dry and cracked from being washed over and over. The counter is a sticky mess and he’s got flour dusted all down his front, right to the ends of his jeans. 

He tips the dough onto the counter top and continues to knead, rolling and stretching and adding more flour. It’s too sticky, even after the rise. That makes no sense. He accounted for the fluctuation in humidity today, for the sharp chill permeating the house. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make _sense._

He keeps kneading. If he keeps going, that’ll fix it. He just needs to keep it moving, he can’t give up on it yet, he _can’t._ This thing that he made from pieces, that he put so much of himself into. 

Five minutes. 

He hears a sharp laugh come echoing down the stairs. 

Harley lifts the dough and smacks it on the counter, gritting his teeth. 

Then he pauses, presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, and breathes deep. 

“What’d that dough ever do to you, Cricket?” 

Harley looks up. 

Mama’s closing the door behind her, nose pink from the cold, ratty jacket shut to the neck over her waitressing uniform. 

Harley opens his mouth to speak but can’t find the words. His face crumples. 

He starts to cry. 

“Oh,” she says softly, and Harley hears her shoes come off, her purse and jacket drop in the entryway. “Oh, baby. Okay. Mama’s home.”

She’s wrapped around him in an instant, hands cold but chest warm, that fry oil scent clinging to the curls of her hair. Her chin settles over his shoulder. 

“What’s up?” she asks. 

“Dough’s too wet,” Harley replies brokenly. 

“Funny,” she muses. “Sometimes even when you think you’ve got a recipe down—that you’re an expert, that it couldn’t go wrong even if you tried to mess it up—it can take a turn for the worse.” 

Mama pulls back just enough to wipe the wetness from his cheekbones. “Want me to help fix it?” 

Harley looks at her, little dry mascara flakes under her eyes and lines by the corner of her mouth, and says, “Can you just—” he mimes wrapping his arms around something. 

Something in her seems to crack. She presses a firm kiss to his temple and says, “You go on into the living room, baby. I’ll be there in a minute. I’m just gonna clean up for you.”

“No,” Harley shakes his head, frowning, “I’ve got it. I can clean, I made the damn mess.”

She bumps their noses together. “Now who’s arguing about cleaning a few plates, hm? Sure, you _can_ do it, but I can do it for you. Because I love you.”

Harley quite suddenly understands more than he thought he could. 

He nods a little, wipes the dry flour off his hands with a towel, and goes into the living room to wait. 

While he does, he stokes the fire and climbs onto the couch, pulling the nearest blanket towards him. Said blanket screams and Barnabus comes shooting out, Armageddon in his yellow eyes. He clings to the old couch with his claws out and his tail flicking. 

“Oh, don’t you start too,” Harley snaps, mortifyingly tearful. 

Barnabus stops hissing. “Thanks,” Harley sniffles. He pulls the blanket up to his neck and curls up, feeling like he’s fading in and out of existence. 

The cat smacks his thigh with a paw. Harley turns wide eyes towards him. “Are we bonding right now?” 

Barnabus glares, but edges forward, gently starting to press his little biscuit paws into Harley’s stomach. He kneads almost reluctantly and keeps glancing around like he doesn’t wanna get caught by a third party. 

Harley sobs. He claps a hand over his mouth, eye to eye with the fucking asshole cat who is somehow managing to love him more than Johnny is at this point in time, and _wow_ how pathetic is that? 

His chest collapses. He’s not even making noise—just letting the gales of this misery-storm rock him. 

Mama comes back just then, a steaming mug of tea in hand. It’s the perfect temperature. For some reason Harley just cries harder. 

“Oh, you,” Mama lifts the edge of the blanket and burrows herself against his side. Then she puts her feet on the coffee table, ankles crossed, and pulls his face onto her lap. 

Harley presses his nose against her thigh and lets her run her fingers through his hair. “You’re shaking,” she whispers, thumb skimming across his forehead. 

Harley shrugs a little. She wraps the blanket tighter around him. Barnabus climbs onto his back and settles at the center of his spine, bobbing with Harley’s every breath. For some reason it feels like the nicest thing anyone has ever done for him. He has a sudden, fierce appreciation for his stupid idiot asshole dickbag cat. 

“I had a plan,” he confesses eventually, voice dull, cradling the mug carefully in hand. 

“Sounds like you. You’re always doing something.”

“Well, this one was actually supposed to work,” he says. “It was supposed to make everything right.”

Mama hums. “And what wrong needs righting this time?”

Harley sighs. “Johnny.”

Mama’s fingers don’t so much as stutter in his hair. “So this was a Valentine’s plan?”

“Yeah.” He brings the tea close so he can breathe in the peppermint scent. “Didn’t work out.”

“Sometimes,” she starts, twisting one of his curls around her finger, “life comes and shakes up your plans like a can of beans, baby.”

“How do I fix it?” 

She clicks her tongue. “Your heart’s always tugging you along by the scruff of the neck, like it thinks it’ll leave the rest of you in the dust. Why don’t you lead for once?”

He thinks about that. Another tear slips down his cheek, tickling all the way to the edge of his jaw. 

“Follow your heart wherever it points you, unless too much pain comes from it,” Mama continues. Barnabus mewls as if in agreement. “Where’s it gone to now?” 

That’s when two pairs of feet come thundering down the stairs. 

“Oh,” Mama says. “Found it.”

“Hey, Harls?” Johnny calls. Harley listens to him patter around the ground floor. “Wow, bread! Geez, so much bread. Oh my god, Pop Rocks, smell this one.” 

“Ugh, so good. I love bread.”

“I’d die for bread. Where the hell is he? What, did he bake himself into a loaf?”

Harley turns toward Mama in panic. She snorts at him and twists his nose. “Follow him until it’s not doing you any good,” she repeats. 

“Following him could only bring me good,” Harley answers. 

“Then go, Cricket,” she says, patting his butt twice for emphasis. She lifts the cat and Harley slips off of her lap. He gives her a kiss on the cheek and a muttered, “Thanks, Mama,” before hurrying toward the kitchen. 

“Hey,” he says, taking the lintel in his hand as he slides to a stop. 

They’ve both got their mouths full of bread. Poppy has curlers in her hair. Johnny’s cheeks are bright pink. 

“Mmnngh,” he says, brows knitting as he swallows heavily. Then he makes a beeline to Harley, pulling his sleeve over his thumb and wiping Harley’s cheek. “Why sad?” He pokes the corners of Harley’s lips. “No sad. Don’t do that. I fix.” He squishes Harley’s cheeks in his hand and smiles exaggeratedly. “No sad,” he repeats. 

“Mm nnn sd,” Harley manages around Johnny’s grip. 

“What happened?” Johnny asks softly. He lets go to wipe Harley’s cheeks again with his bare thumb this time, and his skin hisses a little as it touches the wetness. “Something’s messed up in your head, I can tell.”

“My head is fine.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh-huh.”

“I’m—” Johnny breaks himself off with a huff. Then he gently headbutts Harley’s collarbone like a cat. 

Poppy clears her throat in the kitchen. “If I eat all your bread will you be upset?” she asks loudly. 

Harley glares at her for a moment, but he can’t be mad at her for ruining his plans. It’s not like she _knew._ “Eat the bread,” he tells her. “That’s what it’s for, ain’t it?”

Johnny grabs Harley’s wrist and tugs pointedly. 

“Attention whore,” Harley says to him. 

“Ha!” Poppy crows while sawing into a sourdough loaf with gusto. 

“As if you have ground to stand on there,” Harley says to her. Johnny tugs his wrist again, gaze insistent. “Jesus Mary and Joseph, what?” Harley snaps. 

The effect is instantaneous. Johnny takes a step back, his eyes flashing, hands empty and useless. 

“Sorry.” Harley feels dread, cool like a raw egg straight from the fridge, drip down his back. He knuckles his eyes so hard it hurts. Fucking hell, he’s already fucked it up worse. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—I’ll just—”

He runs upstairs and closes himself in his bedroom, mortified and heartbroken and so, _so_ tired. 

* * *

Harley’s head is hiding under his blankets when his door opens. The whole of him is tucked in, really, and he feels like a sweaty hotdog. 

Good. It’s what he deserves right now. 

“Marco?” comes Johnny’s voice. 

“Polo,” Harley mumbles. “I don’t deserve your idle foolery. Leave me here to die.”

“Falsehoods.” The bed dips as Johnny climbs on. “I wouldn’t let it go that far.” He throws his upper half across Harley’s blanketed back, hand searching across the sheet until he finds Harley’s head. He pats it twice. 

Harley sighs. The weight and warmth of Johnny is always comforting, whether it ought to be or not. And today has him leaning bodily towards _not._

“Get out of there before you suffocate,” Johnny orders, patting Harley’s head again. “Your meanness isn’t so grievous a crime that I’m sentencing you to death.”

“Let me stew in my self-hatred and sweat.” 

“Nope,” Johnny says cheerfully. “Absolutely not.”

“But I was an asshole to you.”

Johnny scoffs.“You snapped at me once. If I held a grudge against you for that, I’d be the biggest hypocrite in the world.”

It’s true, Johnny snaps sometimes. He burns bright and hot, but blows out just as fast. Harley isn’t like that. He smolders. He could be a dick for weeks now that he’s all out of sorts. 

“I’m sorry for yelling,” he mumbles eventually. 

Johnny is silent for a moment. Then, “I really need you to exit the burrito at once, sir.”

Harley pokes his head out and turns to the side, trying to catch a glance of Johnny, who raises himself just enough to let Harley flip onto his back. 

As soon as Johnny’s chest is flat against Harley’s, Johnny grins, all traces of his fire gone. Harley’s face scrunches up. He presses his palms over his eyes. 

“Aw, no,” Johnny whispers. He cuffs one of Harley’s wrists with his hand and tugs. 

“I had a stupid plan,” Harley says, not moving his hands. 

“A plan?” Johnny repeats, not giving up on moving Harley’s hands. 

“Just—stupid, it was stupid, I’m the lord of Stupid Land—”

“Tell me the plan,” Johnny whispers, and his voice sounds so strange that Harley drops his hands to look at him. 

His eyes are wide, his lips slightly parted. He’s all sunlight and apricot skin, gentle golds and raspberry pink. 

“Just some stuff to do,” Harley croaks. “Us.”

“Us,” Johnny echoes. 

“Today.”

“Today.” Johnny’s face does something complicated. “I thought you wouldn’t want to hang out today.”

Harley stares. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because,” Johnny hesitates, “today is what it is.”

“I want to be with you every day,” Harley says. “Whether it’s Valentine’s Day or not. You’re my best friend all the time.”

Johnny’s nose wrinkles. “You totally care about me. That’s so embarrassing for you.”

“I’m literally mortified,” Harley agrees. “It’s disgusting. Completely terrible.”

Johnny’s lips quirk at the corners. “I’ll make it up to you, okay? I promise. New plan, new day.”

“Just us?” Harley asks, feeling small and stupid. 

“Just us,” Johnny affirms, now smiling outright. “Sorry I took a big stinky shit on your plans.”

Harley shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he says, relieved to feel that he means it. 

Johnny nods and buries his face in Harley’s shoulder. “Good.” 

And that’s that. 

* * *

The creak of Harley’s door wakes him at the ass-end of the night. 

“Harley?” comes a little voice. 

He pops an eye open. “Hey baby.”

“Can I come in?” Poppy whispers. 

“Yeah, sure,” he says, sitting up halfway, a little surprised. She hasn’t come to see him in the middle of the night for years.

Poppy scurries over and hops onto the mattress, and then slips under Harley’s sheets. She’s cold, he can feel it. 

He reaches over and pulls her against his side, holding her face in the crook of his neck. “Did you go outside?” he asks, rubbing his other hand up her back. “Why are you so freezing?”

“I went to see the sheepies,” she whispers, nudging closer. 

“Did they say anything enlightening?”

“No. September pooped on my foot.”

Harley snickers into her hair. “Alright, Pop Drop, Pop Socket, Poppy Seed. What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

“M’sorry.”

“What for?” he asks, though he has an inkling. 

“Just sorry.” 

“Well. I forgive you for whatever it was.”

“Thanks,” she whispers. “I’m still sorry.”

“I know. But you don’t have to be.” A moment, just the brush of the curtains and the hum of the heat. “You can tell me anything, you know that? It’s been you and me forever, since the moment I first saw you lookin’ like a wet sock, and it’ll be you and me much longer than that.”

“I know,” she says. Her voice sounds thick and her breath hitches. “Also: I was much cuter than a sock.”

“Okay.” He runs his hand through her hair again and holds her as close as he can. “The cutest lil’ button around. You sleep, okay? You just sleep. I’ve got you.”

Even without her saying it, he’ll find a way to make it better. 

* * *

“So how did it go?”

“Disastrously,” is Johnny’s reply, voice muffled against his silk pillowcase. “I basically avoided him the whole day and then we had a tiny argument. Then we made up, which was nice, but also: I’m still bro-zoned.”

“You know,” says Peter, “you could easily fix that.”

“Easily,” Johnny scoffs. “Nothing about this is _easy,_ Peter Benjamin, absolutely _nothing._ I don’t know how to—feelings, okay? I can’t just walk up to him and verbally express my love, that’s not how it works.”

Peter stares into his camera and stays perfectly still for a good five seconds. He then inhales deeply, closing his eyes. “I don’t know if there’s an actual word in the English language that encompasses how stupid you are.”

Johnny sticks his tongue out. “Be careful, or I’ll put you on mute.”

“Would you please?”

“You literally called _me.”_

“Yeah, well, I thought I’d get better news. A confession, a kiss, an ass squeeze, _something._ This is—this is just so _sad,_ Johnny. You’re making me so sad for you.”

Johnny makes a strangled gurgling noise and writhes around on his mattress in absolute agony. He feels like such a worm. Pathetic, spineless, and also kind of slimy because he’s yet to leave his bed to do his morning skin routine, seeing as Peter had called him before he could get to it. 

Even though he _knows_ better than that. He _knows_ Johnny hates being so much as _glimpsed_ before he’s exfoliated. What an absolute bastard. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Johnny says at last, half hiding under his pillow now. “I don’t know how to say it. God, it’s so _embarrassing._ Like, I think about doing it and it’s not a big deal, but then I start over-analyzing the implications of what I’d actually be saying. It’s ‘I like you,’ out loud, but the underlying message is: ‘I wanna tap that ass’.”

Peter stares again. “I… what.”

“You heard me!”

His best friend shakes his head. “Johnny,” he says, “Johnny, Johnny, _Johnny,_ you’re so fucking dumb!”

“No’m not,” Johnny protests, burying his face in his sheets. 

Peter sighs. Johnny can’t see him, but he can picture him leaning back in his desk chair in absolute exasperation. Johnny scowls. What the fuck is he doing out of bed this early, anyway? Even with the hour time difference, it’s still _nine_ and he’s already doing _homework?_ What a freak. 

“Okay,” Peter says softly, prompting Johnny to peek at his screen. “All this means is that you’re just not ready, which is _completely_ understandable, Jay. You just went through something awful and it’s only been like, two and a half months since then, so if you don’t want to step into something this big, then don’t. I really think you need to go with your gut here, and if your gut is giving you a bunch of reasons not to take the next step, then stay where you are.”

Johnny swallows. His throat feels thick. “I… yeah.” Then, “I just… a part of me _does_ feel ready. And then there’s another part of me that’s like: what if I’m not? What if I’m too damaged? What if I’m just using him as a distraction from everything else? What if I’m making it up and he’s not even really into me and I’m just a delusional lovesick dumbass?”

Peter shakes his head. “That’s just your anxiety. Have you been taking your meds?”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, kicking his feet a little as he rolls onto his back. Then he frowns. “I look like an egg.”

Peter responds by pulling his phone closer so Johnny can get a nice view of his left nostril. Then he fixes the angle. “You have to take care of yourself, first. There’s no point jumping into a relationship you’re not ready for, it’ll only end in disaster.”

“I don’t want disaster,” Johnny agrees. “Romance is yucky, anyway. Look at Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Kim Kardashian and that one dude she was married to for like two months that I can’t remember the name of.” He sniffs. “Never ends well.”

Peter’s lip quirks up. “Kris Humphries.”

“Jesus, you know that and I don’t?!”

“I’m binge-watching their dumb show with Wanda,” Peter says. “Only to make fun of them, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Johnny says solemnly, nodding. 

“So what are you gonna do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ about your situation.”

“There _is_ no situation,” Johnny says, pulling his knees to his chest and rolling from side to side like a beetle that’s been flipped over. “I mean, aside from potential awkwardness.”

Peter clicks his tongue. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Also, like, you hurt his feelings.”

“Yeah, but I apologised.”

“ _Yeah,_ but actions speak louder than words.”

Johnny groans. “So what do you suggest?”

“Well,” his friend starts, “obviously nothing romantic, if you’re not ready for that yet, but you could still do _something.”_

“Like _what?_ I have no talents, no special skills.”

Peter frowns. “That’s not true.”

“It is _so,”_ Johnny snaps. “He does all the cute shit. He bakes birthday cakes and apology pies and knits blankets for sick people and donates expired chickpeas to charity. I burn everything I touch in the kitchen and almost stabbed myself in the eye with the last knitting needle I laid a hand on.”

Peter covers his face with his hands and lets out a little screech. “You’re so—oh my god. Okay. What’s something you know a lot about?”

“Uh, skincare ingredients, outer space, clothes—”

“Amazing! There you go. Do something involving all of that stuff and you can’t go wrong.”

“But none of that shit has anything in common!”

“You’ll make it work,” Peter says. “I gotta go, May’s gonna be home from her shift soon and I’m making her breakfast. Or dinner, I mean. Anyway, I believe in you.”

Johnny grunts a goodbye and Peter hangs up. He stares at his home screen for a long moment, thinking hard, and then heaves a sigh as he hauls himself out of bed. 

Where to begin?

* * *

Harley walks into the kitchen the next morning to find that it’s been bedazzled worse than a 90s jean jacket. There’s leftover Christmas tinsel scattered everywhere, a wrinkled _Happy Birthday!_ banner hanging above the fireplace, and half-inflated balloons placed ominously throughout the common area: one sitting at the table like it’s ready to eat breakfast, one peeking out of the kitchen sink, another floating in the corner of the living room like it got lost trying to escape. 

“What is this devilry?”

That’s right when Johnny decides to pop out from behind the couch. He blows into a party pipe. “Happy Matchstick Day!” 

“Pardon?”

Johnny clumsily climbs over the couch instead of doing the normal, sensible thing by going around. Harley watches him trip over the coffee table and then the rug, dust himself off, and say, “I wanted to make up for yesterday, so I’ve declared that every February the fifteenth shall henceforth be known as Johnny and Harley Day, AKA the day of Matchstick.” 

“Matchstick?”

“It’s our ship name,” Johnny says, to which Harley’s heart does a literal lap around his respiratory system like it’s being screamed at by a drill sergeant. “The masses made it up.”

To prove it he whips out his phone and pulls up his Instagram. Harley is already leaning over his shoulder, chest pressed against back, watching as Johnny scrolls through his carefully curated feed of outfits, group pictures, and memes, until he finds one of himself and Harley. It’s actually a collection of photos taken a few weeks ago: one of Harley posing next to his prized duck, Marta; another of him facedown in the snow; another of him posing seductively in a pile of hay. The rest are mostly blurry, snapshots of Harley doing Farmer Shit and flipping the bird and whatnot. For the last photo Johnny had turned his camera and taken a selfie of his fed up face. The comments on the post—and there are literally thousands of them—are full up of heart emojis and keysmashes and the hashtag ‘matchstick’. 

“See? Buzzfeed even wrote an article about it.”

“Buzzfeed?” Harley demands. “An article?”

“This is why you need social media,” Johnny says, shaking his head with a wrinkled nose like Harley is more disgusting than the nasty rags Mama uses to clean the tables at the diner. “You’re so out of touch. You’re like—dear God, you’re a boomer.”

“A boomer?”

Johnny makes a keysmash sound but with his actual human mouth. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose. “The way that you don’t even know.”

“Well,” Harley says, and then says nothing else. Frustrated, he puts his hands on his hips. “Whatever. Just get back to the Matchstick Day stuff.”

Johnny claps his hands together. “I have a day of fun and surprises planned, the first of which,” he hops over to the table and brings Harley’s attention to the covered dish resting there, “is breakfast.”

Johnny pulls the lid off to reveal a stack of slightly burnt, kind of lumpy, not remotely round pancakes. 

“They’re perfect,” he breathes. 

“Well,” Johnny grabs one and holds it with two fingers like it’s some kind of ugly specimen. He turns it to reveal the blackened back side. “They’ll be okay with syrup.”

“No, really,” Harley says, stepping closer and noting everything else on the table: the jar of strawberry jam, the melted butter in a little glass dish that had belonged to Mama’s mama, the peeled oranges in the bowl, the whipped cream that’s been squirted into a bowl so it looks fancier than the Reddiwhip can. “You did all this for little old me?”

“Well, I felt bad,” Johnny says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “Besides, you do stuff like this almost every morning. I’d be an asshole if I didn’t return the favour at least _once.”_

He’s totally minimising how big a deal this is, but it _is_ a big deal. In fact it’s a huge deal. It’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for him in all his seventeen years. He thinks he might _melt,_ or at least fall onto something and cry like a distraught Disney princess. 

And Johnny’s looking at him all earnest with his lip between his teeth, rocking onto his tiptoes, and Harley really, really wants to kiss him. 

But he doesn’t, because he’s a little chicken. Instead he pulls Johnny into his arms, which is just about the next best thing he can do without straying into non-platonic territory. Johnny stiffens and then relaxes. “Oh,” he says. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Harley returns softly, one hand at Johnny’s ribs, the other at his waist. “Thank you.”

Johnny makes a soft, almost sleepy kind of noise: a kind of contented hum that vibrates against Harley’s chest. “No problem.”

And Harley’s kind of chill to just stay like that for all of eternity. He’d be totally fine if Pompeii 2.0 happened right then and left them cast like this, encased in plaster, wrapped up in each other. 

But then Johnny pulls back. “Come on, we gotta eat quick if we wanna leave before Pop wakes up.”

“And why would we wanna do that?”

“ _Because,”_ Johnny pulls his chair out, “this is supposed to be a me and you day. _Just_ me and you for twenty-four whole hours.” He pauses. “Or as many as we can manage. Anyway: sit, Fido.”

Harley rolls his eyes and plops into the chair. Johnny pushes it in and then drops into the one right next to Harley’s instead of the one at the opposite end. 

Harley thinks he gets why: it’d feel too strange, too domestic, to sit through this quiet morning alone at the kitchen table. From the outside looking in, they’d seem like an old married couple or something. 

But like this, Johnny’s hand brushes against Harley’s all too often. They pass the powdered sugar and honeycombs. Harley gets up to turn on the little portable radio on the windowsill to fill the cracks in their conversation. Johnny makes his pancakes look nice and pretty, covering up the burnt parts with cream and berries. He stands on his chair to get the perfect shot to post. 

And Harley stares at him, bent over, biting his lip, straining to get his own shadow out of the way, and thinks _I love you._

* * *

They take Ruby’s car because she’s got the day off and drive into town.

It’s nearly empty at this hour. Johnny takes in the frosted window panes, snow-swept porches, and plowed roads. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Rose Hill this early in the morning and he counts exactly one guy trudging around with a bundle of freshly chopped wood under his arm. 

“Okay,” Johnny says as they get out of the car, “there are several things we have to do while we’re amongst the townsfolk. Number one: procure sustenance for tonight’s surprise. Number two: obtain a certain item which you needn’t worry yourself over, all you have to do is wait in the car while I get it. Number three: thrift.”

“Thrift?”

“Yes,” Johnny nods, “because you have like, five outfits total, which is absolutely audacious and makes me nauseous to think about. So: clothes.”

He leads the way up to the shop they’d parked in front of. There’s only one used goods store in Rose Hill. Johnny had poked around it once about a month back, but he hadn’t really gotten the chance to really _dive in._ He doesn’t have much hope that anything here will be worth buying, but there’s no harm in at least checking, right? 

The bell chimes as they walk in, but there’s no one behind the front desk to greet them. Johnny shrugs. “Probably in the back,” he says to Harley, creeping inside slowly as the wooden floorboards groan under their weight.

It’s actually kind of a cute set up: plain white walls, some antique couches set up in front of an ornate mirror for trying on clothes; there’s a changing area behind painted saloon doors and shelves and shelves of books along the back walls, toward which Harley beelines immediately. 

Johnny flits through the clothing racks while Harley traces spines, muttering titles under his breath and flicking through pages, head tilted, hip cocked out. 

Johnny gets halfway through a section before he realises he hasn’t been looking at anything but Harley for five whole minutes. His chest feels tight and his face is hot and he can’t stop thinking about Harley’s touching him like that: fingers feather-light, running over Johnny’s skin, down his neck, tracing _his_ spine. 

He shakes his head, flush creeping down his neck. If he’s not careful he’ll start singing sleeves. 

“Harley,” he calls. “Come try this on.”

It’s nothing special, just an oversized plaid coat, but Johnny thinks the warm orange and brown colours might bring out Harley’s eyes. 

Harley brings a worn out paperback over and shrugs on the coat. It falls just fine off his shoulders, but he has to roll up the sleeves a little. That’s fine. He’s got nice wrists. 

Harley flaps his arms like a distressed baby penguin. “This is just like my other one.”

“Yeah, but I like this one better.”

“Nonsensical,” Harley declares. “You insult my plaid clothes all the time but you want me to buy more. Make up your mind, Jonathan.”

Johnny’s heart skips a beat at the sound of his full name. He adjusts the coat a little. “Plaid can be good if you wear it right. You’ll need black jeans for this, which you don’t own—and I can’t express to you how disgusting it is that you only own two pairs of pants and they’re _both_ blue jeans, please, I might shed real tears—anyway, yeah. Black jeans, black shirt, pop of colour with the coat.”

Harley frowns. “I like my jeans, y’know. They’re nice and soft because I wear ’em all the time. I don’t have to do that weird flamingo hop dance y’all Yanks do to get your pants on; mine slip right over my caboose and conform to the curve of my buns like an old friend.”

Johnny struggles not to start laughing. He turns back to the racks so Harley doesn’t get the satisfaction of seeing him grin. He pulls a faded, oversized Nike sweater off the racks and sets it aside for himself. 

Then his hands freeze. “Cardigans.”

“What?”

“Cardigans,” Johnny repeats louder, searching urgently for one now. “Big ones, wool ones, ones with _pockets._ Autumnal colours. Rust, emerald, brown— _eep!”_

He yanks one free and displays it: soft, so secondhand it’s a little fuzzy, beige with tortoise buttons. 

“I love him,” Harley breathes, grabbing the hem. “A good boy, a snuggly boy.”

“See? _See?_ I know what I’m talking about.”

Johnny sets it and the coat he’d forced Harley into, in the ‘yes’ pile. They keep looking. Johnny finds two more shirts for himself, a jacket for Pop, and a sundress for Ruby. 

“Here, try this—Harley?”

Harley grunts. He’s back over by the books, now sitting cross-legged on the ground and just reading. Johnny tries to be irritated but finds that he just can’t, because Harley just looks too damn cute with his chin resting on his hand like that, hair falling into his eyes. 

Johnny goes over. He kneels by Harley and then leans down to insert his head between Harley’s face and the book in his lap. “You abandoned me.” 

Harley grins. “‘ _Men at some time are masters of their fates: the fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.’_ ” 

Johnny rolls his eyes. “Maybe ‘get the fuck in the changing room’ can be our ‘always’.”

Harley groans and dog-ears the book, setting it in a stack he either means to buy or somehow read his way through before they leave. Then he gets to his feet, snatching up the clothes Johnny’s carefully picked out just for him, and slips inside the changing saloon. 

Johnny waits, still on the floor, chin in his hands as he leans forward with anticipation. 

“I hate it,” Harley announces as he comes into view a minute or so later. 

“ _Coup de crayon!”_ Johnny replies happily. “Your pencil neck is perfect for turtlenecks.” 

Harley yanks the sweater away from his skin. “Itchy.”

“But _fashionable,”_ Johnny says, going over and, without thinking about it, tucking the sweater into Harley’s pants for him. He only falters when it’s already done and Harley’s just _looking_ at him, lips parted, cheeks red, pupils blown. They’re barely two inches apart. Johnny’s got his hands on Harley’s waist. 

He feels like he’s sinking. He feels like soup. He feels like he’s floating without gravity, drifting in outer space, up and down, heavy and light at the same time. 

“Johnny,” Harley whispers, like the name is a one-word sonnet, like Shakespeare penned it himself and it holds all of the meaning of the universe, like it’s dense with all kinds of emotion: a choking want, a churning desire, a quiet desperation. Breathless at the end, rough around the edges. 

Johnny lowers his gaze. “You look good.”

Harley’s grip tightens at Johnny’s hips. Johnny hadn’t even realised he’d grabbed him. He shakes his head. “ _Johnny._ Jay, I—”

“What in tarnation!” snaps a new voice, prompting Johnny to jump about three whole feet in the air and spring out of Harley’s arms. “How long have you two been here?!”

The little old lady with her hands on her hips isn’t _remotely_ cause for Johnny to be shaking like he is, but he _is._ He feels lightheaded and empty like he just got drained of an entire chakra or something. “We, uh—like half an hour?”

The lady adjusts her giant coke-bottle glasses. She’s about four feet tall at most, a little hunched over, and wearing a floral dress that suits her pretty okay. She looks them up and down and comes away unimpressed. “Shoulda hollered,” she says, going over to the register. 

“Yes’m,” Harley agrees, because he was raised with manners. “We’re mighty sorry.” Johnny swallows the argument he’d been about to make and just nods earnestly instead. 

“Well,” says the old lady, who regardless of her real name Johnny has decided to call Agnes, “I suppose there was no harm done. Now, are you ready to buy that, or do you just wanna keep standin’ round lookin’ pretty?”

“See?!” Johnny demands. “She thinks you look pretty!”

Harley is blushing even more, now. Johnny feels completely feral at the sight. He tries to stop himself before he can start thinking unholy thoughts about Harley with an arched back and a flush like that and—

“I’m gonna go change back into my old clothes,” Harley announces, and ducks back into the changing hall. 

Johnny starts rubbing his temples. He’s going to hell, he can feel it. God, what is _wrong_ with him?! Liking Harley used to be an innocent past-time: he could do it absentmindedly, barely think about it. He misses the days when it was just a warm, fluttery feeling in his stomach, and not this destructive and dangerous _mess._ It’s like a bomb in the centre of his chest, wired all throughout his body, making his blood hot and his mind race and his no-no square turn into a yes-yes triangle.

“Is that your boyfriend?” Agnes asks. 

She’s sitting behind the counter on a stool, now, and tosses the question out dryly in-between perusing the pages of her sewing pattern magazine.

Johnny trudges up to the counter. “No,” he says, pouting. “But I really, really want him to be.”

Agnes stares over the rims of her huge glasses. “Does he not like boys?”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Well then, what’s the problem?”

“The problem is…” Johnny trails off. His face scrunches up. Then he shakes his head. “It’s me. I’m just… I’m not good for people.”

“Oh, please,” Agnes throws her magazine down. “Don’t even spew that garbage in my store, honey. I’ve lived on this godforsaken planet for seventy years, and let me tell you something I’ve learned in that time: _good_ is a choice, not a chromosome. If there’s a problem to ya, fix it, but fix it right quick. You don’t wanna lose that boy before you ever even have him.”

Johnny blinks. “You really believe that?”

“I don’t believe it, I _know_ it.” She squints at him and then double-takes as something grabs her attention to her left. “Did you organise my clothing racks by colour?”

Johnny’s face heats up and he clears his throat. “I may have.”

He absolutely had, and kind of without realising it. He’d also sectioned everything off properly by size and season. 

Agnes clicks her tongue consideringly. “You want a job?”

Johnny gapes. “A what?”

“A _job,_ sweetcheeks. Something to take your mind offa romanticisin’ your boy back there. ’Sides, I figure I could use someone to watch the store while I’m workin’ in my office.”

“What do you do back there?”

“I sell weed.” 

Johnny stares. He waits for her to say, _just kidding!_ or for whatever LSD tab he’d somehow ingested to wear off. It does not. 

Agnes snaps her fingers under his nose. 

Johnny starts and makes a little squeaking noise. “Sorry. Are you my fairy godmother?”

* * *

“Do you think there’s a medically safe way for me to douse my brain in holy water?” 

Johnny is met with a good long pause, and then Peter says, “Explain.”

“I can’t _explain,”_ Johnny snaps, sandwiching his phone between his ear and neck as he picks through fruits. “I’m in _public_ and Harley is close.”

In actuality he’s somewhere at the other end of the supermarket, picking up apple spice shampoo for Poppy and shaving cream for Ruby and whatever other household items they’ve run out of. None of them will be for Johnny because he still gets all of his expensive skincare and hair shit shipped from New York; in the back of his mind he’s still worried about being considered an imposition, still worried about taking up too much space. Also, he’d rather eat his own foot than give up his Glossier products. 

“So these unholy thoughts involve Harley?”

“Yes,” Johnny says, picking up an apricot to sniff. “I literally don’t know what I’m gonna do with myself anymore. I mean, on the one hand I’m still completely terrified and convinced that I’ll corrupt his good nature—”

“A stupid idea, but go on.”

“—and on the _other_ hand, I might not be able to stop myself from—” he chokes a little, “doing things. Anyway. Dear God. Where am I? Who am I? What’s happening?”

He backs away from the produce stands and makes a big show of crossing his chest even though Peter can’t see him. 

“Take a deep breath,” Peter says, and so Johnny does because it seems like a good idea. “You just need to find a distraction.”

“A distraction,” Johnny repeats, nodding. “Yeah, okay, except I agreed to spend the entire day with him and I have no excuses and nothing else to do. And I _want_ to be around him, too.” He pauses. “I did get a job though, if that helps.”

“You got a job?!” Peter repeats. “Jay, that’s great! What is it?”

“Just helping this old lady with her thrift store,” Johnny says, climbing into the cart now because he’s actually twelve. “She wants me to organise things. I was thinking maybe I could make her an Instagram and advertise her store on my next OOTD post.”

“Wow, using your clout for good, I stan.”

“Right? Giving back feels so good.”

Peter laughs a little. Johnny can tell he’s got that dopey grin on his face and his eyes are all soft, like a proud big brother or something. It’s ridiculous, but it makes Johnny feel kind of good about the whole thing.

Then Harley pops around the corner and Johnny nearly drops his phone in surprise, even though like, it’s the _least_ surprising thing ever that Harley would finish his half of the shopping before Johnny. 

“I gotta go,” he says quickly, and hangs up.

* * *

Harley waits in the car while Johnny completes his last errand. They’re stopped in front of the only auto repair shop in town and it starts to drizzle a little while Johnny’s inside. Harley doesn’t mind. He leans back, rests his feet on the dash, and reads one of the books he’d bought from the shop.

“What was that?” Harley asks when Johnny comes running back, a little damp but not quite drenched. 

“Secret,” Johnny replies, stashing a plastic-bag wrapped box. “Super secret.”

Harley gives him a look. “You know you don’t have to do all this stuff for me.”

Johnny’s got the keys in the ignition, but he stops at that and turns around. “I know,” he says softly. “But I want to.”

And Harley thinks, if he could, he’d kiss him right then and there. The worst part is, he _can._ His body is actually tingling with the idea of it, threatening to careen him forward like a wave following the pull of the moon, but like always before it can go anywhere Johnny cuts it off. 

He starts the car. “Let’s get home.”

* * *

An hour later, after a quick lunch that Poppy complains through until they show her what they bought her in town, Johnny drags Harley out of the house and down the property toward the garage shed. 

“You wanna work on the truck today?” Harley demands.

“Actually, I wanna _finish_ the truck today,” Johnny says, revealing the package he’d picked up before. It’s the last part they’ll need to get the damn thing running, and Harley grins at the sight of it. 

They get to work: finishing what they’d been fixing before, preparing to change out the transmission. Johnny’s loosening knuts and lubricating things and tightening screws, but he’s also watching Harley: leaning over the engine, grease on his forehead, hands sure of what they’re doing and where they need to be next, handling every part with care. 

Johnny wants Harley to touch him like that. He wants him to know Johnny like the back of his hand, to be careful with his heart like that, to hold it in his hands—a broken, blackened thing—and figure out how to fix it. He wants Harley’s calloused fingers to put him all back together, wants him to find whatever part it is that Johnny’s missing and stick it where it goes. 

Because as it is, he’s running on empty. He’s so damn tired. 

Harley catches him staring. “What’cha lookin’ at me for?”

Johnny blushes. “You’ve got dirt on your face,” he says quickly, and ducks under the truck before he literally combusts. 

A little while later they’re sweaty despite the chill in the air and dirty to boot, but Harley’s behind the wheel and muttering a prayer to someone—a god, Tony Stark, Shakespeare himself—and whatever it is he says, it works. 

The piece of shit truck they’ve been working on for over a month revs to life. 

Johnny jumps, pumping his fist. “Fuck yes!” 

He absolutely loves the feeling of finishing something, of knowing it was his brain (and Harley’s) that put this old hunk of junk back together well enough to run. Harley hoots, bouncing in his seat. “That’s what I’m fuckin’ talking about,” he says. “That’s my girl!”

“Your girl?!” Johnny demands, grinning and leaning through the open window. “It’s not a cow giving birth, Harley.”

“Might as well be,” Harley says, giving the dash a loving pat. “Old Nelly.” 

“Nelly?!” Johnny’s cheeks hurt now. The sun is inside of his chest and climbing its way out of his throat, rising light beaming out of him; love and laughter and light, all things _Harley:_ those are the secrets of the universe. He pinches his brow. “I’m sorry, I refuse to call this damn truck by that name.”

“Bessie then,” Harley says. “Or Beth.”

“ _Bessie?”_

“Just get in the fuckin’ truck and let’s _go.”_

So Johnny does, because Harley asked. Harley could ask him to do anything. Harley could say: “Eat cow shit!” and yeah, Johnny would have a few questions, but if it was for Harley he’d still do it. 

They peel out of the garage. The truck freaks and groans with every turn and toots black smoke every mile or so, but they don’t drive very far: just down a ways to the lake, which has thawed by now as spring unfolds around them; reeds sprout from the mucky shoreline where the water laps lazily, shifting with the slightest breeze. 

Johnny gets out. He yanks open the back door and pulls out the blanket and six-pack he’d stashed away for just this moment, to which Harley raises his eyebrows. 

“I told you today would be full of surprises,” Johnny says, climbing into the bed of the truck to spread the old quilt out. Then he plops down and pats the spot beside him. “Come on, you know you’ve got nothing better to do.”

Harley frowns. “Now that’s just insulting. I could be broadening my mind or cleansing my aura or something. I could re-do the Mona Lisa but give her eyebrows, or bake a three tier cake, or—”

Johnny cracks a beer can. Harley sighs, resigned, and climbs up to sit beside him. 

They watch the water shift and rock. Johnny leans back, careful not to look at Harley. Instead he watches the geese fly in a scattered triangle across the pink and blue sky. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes and listens to their stupid honks. 

For the first time in a long time, Johnny feels perfectly at peace. This is _home,_ really home, as unimaginable as that would have been to him a couple of months ago. It’s good for him in ways New York could never be: calm and serene, predictable; the ground is flat and the fields stretch on for miles. Every Sunday the people get together for church, every Saturday those old ladies play bridge and rummy on their front porches, and Harley is always here, always right beside him—and if not, just an arm’s length away, right there when Johnny wriggles his fingers like a little kid feeling for their bedroom light switch after a scary movie. 

The earth revolves around the sun and the moon revolves around the earth and Johnny revolves around Harley, who is everywhere, who is the only thing— _really, truly—_ the only thing keeping Johnny from leaving this godforsaken planet forever. 

He dares to crack an eye open. 

Harley is of course looking down at him, lips parted in awe, reverent. Those dark brown eyes flit down to Johnny’s lips completely unabashedly. 

And they both know. It’s not a secret. 

Which is maybe why Johnny doesn’t feel strange reaching up to cup Harley’s jaw. He doesn’t even think before tracing his lower lip with his thumb, brushing against the softness of his beeswax chapstick and feeling like he could just about cry when Harley relaxes, leaning against Johnny’s hand, letting his face be held. 

“Harley,” Johnny whispers, “I’m so happy.”

And Harley falls forward; they don’t kiss but Johnny’s lips brush his cheek and it’s not an accident; Harley buries his face in the crook of Johnny’s neck and pulls him close. Johnny lets himself get all wrapped up, clinging to the fabric of Harley’s sweater, pressing his nose against it.

“Do you know something?” asks Harley, voice a little muffled and wet, “that’s just about the best darn thing I’ve ever heard in my entire fuckin’ life.”

* * *

[notes app; 3:45 AM - i can’t sleep and have feelings, a novel by johnny storm] 

_dear sue,_

_i remember the feeling i got a few months after moving to New York: like my bones were settling, like my feet were sinking into sand. i got that here today. i think no matter what there’s always gonna be a piece of me that belongs to this place, a little shard of my soul buried in a cornfield like a time capsule._

_i miss you. i think about you every day and I try to be as good as you, but i’m just so bad and broken. he’s made out of all the good stuff the universe has got and if i ever get my hands on him, i’ll ruin him. I’ll hurt him sue, I just know it._

_but i love him down to the roots of me. every one of my tree-ring layers aches just to be looked at by him. is that how you felt about reed? like you could explode with the wanting? i’d do anything to take his stupid face in my stupid hands and kiss him into next tuesday, but i’m too scared. so many things have changed and we’ve got this good thing going and i don’t… i’m not ready, yet._

_maybe i’m just a coward._

_anyway, i saw a dress you might’ve liked today: black and white polka dots with ruffles at the hem. i didn’t buy it though._

_is that progress?_

* * *

A week later finds Johnny nestled in the barn. 

He’s tucked into his favorite alcove: wedged between the wall and a stack of hay bails, one foot bracing him in place, reading while Peggy the chick pecks at his other shoe. 

He can’t believe he’s actually _reading a book._ Granted, it’s for school and he absolutely wouldn’t be doing it otherwise, but still. Books? When Netflix exists? Disgusting. 

Despite his misgivings, however, Johnny finds that he keeps accidentally getting sucked into the story. He only realises when he’s ripped away abruptly, like now as Harley rolls the barn door open and shuffles inside, carrying a bucket of water and a bunch of other crap. 

Johnny decides to just watch him for a minute. He closes his book on a finger and leans forward, resting his chin on his palm, eyes following Harley shuffle around and hum under his breath, a chaotic mess of too-long limbs and incorrect lyrics. 

Johnny sneezes.

Harley looks up. Grins wide. “Howdy, partner.”

“Hiya,” Johnny says, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Whatcha doin?”

“Shearing the sheep.”

Johnny frowns and wriggles out of his little wedge, boots thumping on the floor as he drops. “Shearing in February?”

Harley nods. He’s on his knees sorting through different combs for the razor. “They get too hot if you wait too long. Besides, Lolly’s already starting to mat.”

“You’re sure they won’t be too cold?”

Harley looks up with a smile. “Are you worried about the sheepies?”

“What? No. Don’t be ridiculous.” He pauses. “Yes. A lot. I just—it’s been raining all the time—”

“Believe me, they’ll be warm enough. The barn’s insulated and the rain’ll let up soon. I don’t want them baking when that happens. Help me hold their little leggies while I do it, will you?”

Johnny agrees, with some uncertainty, but Harley shows him the right way to do it without hurting them. They start on Polly and then Lolly, and by the time they get to the third sheep, Johnny’s knees are getting sore.

There’s scraps of wool floating in the air. One lands on Harley’s shoulder, another in his hair. Johnny tries to hide his smile. 

The littlest sheep are the easiest and quickest to do. They bleat frantically at first and then relax, blinking up at Harley, who grins down at them and kisses their little snouts. “Wow,” he says to them when he’s done, “you look so pretty. What a pretty little goblin baby. You’re gonna make Old Man Walter so jealous.”

_Oh wow,_ Johnny thinks. _I love you._

* * *

It’s the end of February and hailing hard. They’ve been drinking for hours, nestled in the attic, swathed in the crackling sound of the radio and the balmy warmth of Johnny’s body. 

“Come on,” Harley practically begs. “Just—let me—”

“Just fucking _go,_ Harley,” Johnny spits, pressing his palms into his thighs where he sits on the edge of his mattress, sheets rumpled from not having risen for the whole stretch of the day. God, his eyes are greyish tonight—dirty snow and dull lead and tarnished dimes—as if all the color has been sucked from them and he’s been left completely dry. “Leave me alone. Geez.”

“Why?” Harley challenges. “Why should I leave?”

“Because I don’t _need you,”_ Johnny says, and _oh,_ that hits Harley like a bullet between the eyes. 

“Fine,” he says stiffly, and turns. 

That’s as far as he gets. 

If Harley were less stubborn, he would listen. He’d make it through the trap door, all stoic and self-sacrificing for the sake of Johnny’s happiness, and he’d sit in his room and sketch the cracked look in Johnny’s eyes until he breaks the pencil’s lead. He’d ache and he’d storm and he’d curse and he’d break a few guitar strings. He’d smack his pillow around, pull stuff out of his drawers to throw on the floor and then put back, but he’d do it all alone. Johnny would get what he asked for. 

The fact of the matter remains that Harley would die defending much smaller blips on the line graph of Important Things than Johnny Storm. And nothing needs more defending from the likes of Johnny Storm than Johnny Storm himself. 

Thus, Harley pivots on his heel, cups Johnny’s face in his palm, and presses a rough kiss to his forehead. “You don’t get to get rid of me like that,” he growls into Johnny’s hair. “You don’t get to push me away. It’s you and me, you hear? I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again, a hundred times, a thousand. However many times you need to hear it, until it punctures your thick goddamn skull. It’s you and me for good.” Harley takes a breath. It shakes. _“You and me,_ Jay. So do me a solid and lay it on me, won’t you?” 

Johnny’s only response is a broken sob. 

It cuts through Harley’s chest like lightning splitting a tree stump; steaming bark and charred inner marrow, cleaved right in two. 

He pulls away and kneels in front of Johnny, hands running from his kneecaps to his hips, and doing what? Warming? Searching? Wanting? 

“No,” Harley whispers to the both of them. “Come on, Hot Head. Let it out.” 

He takes Johnny’s hands in his and holds them against his own cheeks for want of something to do, for a way to fix this. He could stitch it up with his embroidery needle and some bright orange thread, he could turn it into something pretty, if you could make pretty from sad. 

God, can’t he just be useful for one fucking moment of his life?! The _one time_ he needs to be more than ever before? 

“Johnny,” he tries again, voice shaking, “what’s got your light so dim, huh?” 

“I don’t know,” Johnny manages, made all the worse for the bitter laugh that he forces alongside it. “I don’t know. It’s just—it’s too big to fit.”

Harley’s stomach sinks. He thinks in metaphors, sees similes dangling from the branch-tips of his apple tree all year round. He can’t help but know down to the spaces between his ribs what Johnny means. Harley is so quick to feel, to ache with others, to ache _for_ them. This only makes sense: two boughs grown too intertangled to pull apart without uprooting them both. “What’s too big?”

Johnny sighs and it stutters in time with the two fresh tears that cut tracks over the curves of his cheeks. Where his fingers brush the skin behind Harley’s ears, he scritches his nails, a hesitant kind of comfort. As if he thinks _Harley_ is the one who needs it. “The space,” Johnny says. “Where they used to be. It’s too big.” Another sob, his face twisting miserably. “I can’t hold it in me. Not anymore. It’s—Harley. _Harley._ ”

Harley pushes himself up, crawls onto the mattress, and takes Johnny into his arms as he lies down flat. Eyes to the skylight, to the inevitability of an infinity outside of this; a promise with that starry, eternal wisdom: _this, too, shall pass._ He presses Johnny’s ear over his heart, a hand carding through his curls with perhaps too much anxious energy to be soothing. His other hand finds Johnny’s and squeezes with all he’s worth. “I hear you,” Harley says. “You shouldn’t have to fit it all. Let me carry some for you.”

“No.” Johnny is vehement, head jerking up so Harley’s hand falls limply against the mattress. “No, I—you can’t. You c-can’t do that.”

“Why?” Harley asks, eyes darting from Johnny’s freckles, stark against his lifelessly sallow cheeks, to the tangled strands of his eyelashes, and then to the delicate bow of his upper lip. “Why can’t I? It’ll help you, won’t it? Of course I’ll do it.”

Johnny shakes his head and wipes his nose. “I could never ask you to do that for me.”

“You’re not asking.” Harley’s fingers find the hinge of Johnny’s jaw and tap against it something gentle, like the tattoo of rain on the roof at midnight. “I’m telling you. Give it to me.” _If it’s yours, I want it._ “It won’t be too much.” _I’d be the Atlas to your smile—the toothy one, the crinkled-eyed one, the dimpled one, but the secret shared one most of all._ “I’d do anything to make this easier for you.” _Every inch of me aches to love you through this._

“I…”

“You,” Harley agrees. 

“Please,” Johnny says next, wet and thick and right from the pit of his chest like it’s being wrenched out of him, like it’s been waiting to be pulled free. “Please,” Johnny sobs, “Harley, make it _stop._ ”

Harley blinks tears out of his own eyes and pulls Johnny back onto him. Their knees knock, their chests press together, and Johnny tucks his head into the crook of Harley’s neck.

“God,” Harley croaks, burying his nose into Johnny’s shoulder, hoping he can’t feel the wetness seep through the cotton of his sweater. Harley just can’t hold it in: the harrowing enormity of it all. “I’ve got you. Right here. Come on.” 

Of course Johnny can’t carry this. He’s narrow-ribbed with a heart so unencumbered it must fill him from throat to navel. There’s no extra room there for the maggots of grief, the longing for the impossible. Not when so much of him is mulch and soil and seed and harvest. “I’ll hold it all. You just let it out.” 

In Harley’s arms, Johnny shakes. Bambi in April, the quiver of a bow against strings, the chain from the ceiling fan as it spins too fast. He cries quietly and holds onto Harley for dear life. 

“I wasn’t pulling your dick when I said to let it out,” Harley says, squeezing, wondering if Johnny needs to be held together or pulled apart; whether Harley needs to be Gorilla Glue or a sledgehammer. “You won’t feel better until the lock flicks open and the ghosts run free.”

He doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s saying, but it makes sense, like the words have been there waiting to be uttered. Johnny’s hands fist in Harley’s flannel and he whines like he’s been suckerpunched. 

“That’s right. You’ve gotta let out the bad before the good comes in.” 

“There’s no room for good,” Johnny sobs. 

“We’re making room,” Harley reminds him. “Spring cleaning. We’re shaking your chest like a maple tree in Animal Crossing, letting the money fall out. There’ll be something better there tomorrow, maybe a leaf if we’re lucky.” 

“I don’t—”

“What?” Harley tightens his arms, jostling Johnny a little. His chest is so full with this, so close to bursting, that his throat aches. His heart skips and stutters, too clumsy for him. God, his golden boy, the shooting star he keeps in a mason jar, lid puckered with breathing holes but screwed on tight. It’s still not enough. Is he keeping him safe or suffocating him something slow and prolonged and lung-achingly painful? He never knows. “What, Johnny? You’ve gotta say it.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

Johnny pulls away enough to meet Harley’s eyes once more, the two of them damp and a little cracked at the edges like Mama’s best china plates. Harley’s hands find their way to Johnny’s waist, loose, just cradling. He can’t let go. Not now, not ever again. 

“I don’t _deserve_ better,” Johnny whispers, and Harley’s heart rents. “Ben left me here. I must have done _something_ to make him leave, to—to make him hate me. Sue and Reed and the kids are _dead—”_ the word is shattered all the way through, “—and it’s my fault. I could’ve—done something, I should have, and now they’re fucking floating in space, Harley, their b-bodies are out there, starved or dehydrated or _shish kebabed_ because of _me._ Because I wasn’t g-good enough to save them. Because they were too good for me in the first place.” Every stutter has his face screwing up, a showing of unadulterated self-hatred, and Harley wants to brush the knots out of Johnny’s voice himself—to unburden his throat. Johnny continues, voice verging on hysterical, “I killed my family. I _killed my family.”_

Harley takes Johnny’s face in his hands and gives him the world’s softest headbutt. Johnny’s lashes press into the lenses of Harley’s glasses as his eyes shut. Harley could weep. 

“You didn’t kill them,” Harley says slowly. 

He feels Johnny shudder between his palms. 

“You didn’t,” Harley repeats, stronger. “It was a cosmic fuckin’ fluke. Johnny. You know I think the world of you, but not even you have the power and cunning to kill the Richards family all by your lonesome. You can’t take the blame for it all.”

“I can,” Johnny breathes. “Who else would?”

“Doctor Motherfucking Doom, mayhaps?” 

Johnny scowls. “He’s insane, but he didn’t—the Battleworlds—”

Harley is still foggy as to what the fuck happened with the timeline convergences and all that shit, but what’s important to him is, “Doom is the reason they’re missing. Not you. Doom started that. You did your best to stop it.”

Johnny’s lip trembles. He bites down on it hard. 

Harley reaches out subconsciously. His thumb skims Johnny’s lip as he whispers, “Stop that, stop, you’ll bleed.”

“Maybe I deserve that, too,” Johnny mutters, and Harley’s heart stops. 

“No,” Harley croaks, crushing Johnny back against him—beautiful Johnny who wears his skin like a jacket just slightly too small, who stumbles over air when he’s nervous and sneaks potato wedges to Barnabus the bastard feline, who paints his nails navy blue and lavender and November-leaf orange; brilliant Johnny who knows car parts like Harley knows chord progressions, who can think his way out of anything if you give him enough time, who can start and stop an argument with mirrored twists of his clever tongue; compassionate Johnny who aches like a brook tripping over stones, who ushers in the first dry heat of summer with every breath, who by some crooked lottery won a weight so enormous it crushes him while the rest of the world is too enraptured by the glimmer in his eyes to notice it. Who thinks he _deserves that silent torture._ “No,” Harley repeats. “Johnny. You deserve the fucking moon on a ribbon, the—Johnny, please,” and now Harley is fucking sobbing right back, “please, never think that. Never, ever think that.”

“But what if it’s true?” Johnny presses. “What if—the only way to tell I’m not stardust with the rest of ’em, that I’m still _real—”_

“Listen to me,” Harley says. “Johnny. Listen to me. You’re _here._ You’re right here. My heart’s beatin’ something fierce for you,” he slips a hand under Johnny’s sweater, fingers splayed against the too-hot skin of his back, “and I’m holding you right here, and I couldn’t’a dreamed this up in a million years. No one could’ve, not even you. This is _real._ This is _home._ It’s you and me. Just you and me. _Always_ you and me.”

Johnny sobs brokenly, clutching Harley. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Never,” Harley says. “There’s no sorries with you and me, Sunspot. No need for ’em.”

“I’m scared you’ll be next. I can’t—not you. I can’t lose you too.”

Harley presses their cheeks together. “I’m not going anywhere until you push me off of ya like a sack of onions.”

The sound Johnny makes in response is almost a strangled laugh. 

Harley gropes on Johnny’s nightstand for a tissue box and pulls one free. He taps the bridge of Johnny’s nose and says, “Blow.” 

Johnny scowls at him. 

Harley raises a single eyebrow. 

“You’re fucking grody,” Johnny mumbles, but he blows. 

Harley tosses the tissue when he’s done, then pulls Johnny down onto his pillow, the two of their heads close enough to press the tips of their noses together. They face each other like they always should. 

“Does it feel any easier to carry?” Harley whispers. “Looser? Lighter now that it’s out?”

Johnny’s eyes close. For a long moment he’s silent. 

“Jay?” Harley prompts.

“Ask me again in the morning,” Johnny mumbles, splotchy and exhausted and stunning in the purplish rays of lingering moonbeams dangling down from the skylight. 

“I can do that,” Harley says. “I can—I’ll ask you every morning. Forever. Until you set me on fire or otherwise render me unable to.”

“Never,” Johnny manages, the two perfect syllables tapering off into nothingness as sleep claims him as its own. 

Harley lies there watching him—keeping watch _of him,_ ready to punch out every nightmare and spirit and motherfucking echo come to torment him. He wishes his bones were thicker. He wishes his blood ran angrier. He wishes he were more righteous, more avenging. But he’s always been the hands, not the heart. 

And Johnny is the fucking flaming spirit, tossing light into the dusty corners of them all. 

He’ll tend the fire. Keep it roaring. 

They’d freeze a hundred times over without it. 

* * *

Harley thinks of Johnny in sonnets: iambs scrambling one after the other, pen-smudged, a messy musical scrawl of pure heartbeat affection. Petrarchan conceit in stygian blue. Branches leaving dappled, messy shadows on the grass as it waves, blurring, a constant writhing, a trick of the light. The motion in the corner of his mirror in the evening when his room is purplish and his eyes are heavy and he never knows if it’s there, if he should name it, if he can do something so bold as to call it his. Birthday candles snuffed out and the rustle of textbook pages and the warble of a brook and birdsong when he hasn’t yet slept. A first-edition with the first-draft crossed out, angry racing stripes of _I take it back,_ circles and crosses and _no no no!_ in the margins. Every line. Harley would carve every line into the skin of his back to read of Johnny, to reek of him, cover to gold-tinged cover. 

Harley sees Johnny in sketchbook pages: dozens, hundreds, pencil and pen and Crayola crayon, azure and greyscale and violent, vitriolic red. Marker lines bleeding through thin paper; watercolor clinging to unyielding cardstock face. A roundish jaw, a straightish nose, the glimmer of a little hoop in his left earlobe. Eyelashes that brush his brow bone when he looks up, delicate angles tossed together at whim, a perfect storm of unmatched pieces like Picasso on speed and Botticelli blindfolded. He’s glass blown with careful breaths, freckled by the clumsy ink pen of the universe, traced with lines that Harley has begun to think are awfully unsure of themselves. Unsteady. Afraid. Every last stroke of him screams of it. Harley sees the strain, hears the echoes of his anguish ringing in the lonely place between his ears. Soothes it with gentle hatching along the shadows at the hollow of his throat; eases it with a golden highlight striping the peaks of his cheekbones; reassures it with the thick lines of his manicured brows. It’s okay that he exists. It’s allowed. It’s appreciated. It’s _wonderful._

Harley touches Johnny like rock-climbing and cliff-diving and ten-mile-twenty-mile-eighty-year hikes, precarious heights and dizzying angles and trusting himself not to stumble, not to falter, not to go crashing down to the crust before he brushes the clouds just once with the tip of his finger. Like driving too fast down the highway when the rain ends and kicking up mist; like his heels getting caught in the perennial April mud; like cutting the heads off strawberries and chopping celery stalks and kneading bread dough until it shines, until it’s taut, until he’s gotta keep his hands off and let the damn thing rest. He touches Johnny like a mapmaker recording: at first sparingly, educationally, dreading to prod anything out of its place. Later appreciatively, yes, here it is steeper, here it is smoother, here are the winding rivers along his wrists and here are the mountains of his odd knobby knees and here is the sweet dip of his navel. Then desperately. He will be ripped from this land and he knows it. He’s sorry. He didn’t mean to love it, to sow a season’s harvest in the tilled dirt of it, to prick his finger and drip bits of his blood there, growing red-leafed maples and marigolds and patches of berry bushes. This is not his. It never was. He will go. He will, he will, he will collect his maps and his things and leave and hope—pray fiercely, with all of his psalms and his sonnets and his sketches and his careful directions—that he has left it just as changed as he feels in the pit of his stomach. 

Harley would wax poetic, spin tapestries, write rhapsodies, sing arias, raze villages, lift valleys on his back, for Johnny to know just an ounce of what he feels for him. He’d do it and, more than that, he’d burn for it. 


	5. MARCH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! sorry we’ve been MIA for so damn long but here is 18k to make up for it!

  
Of the two of them, Harley is definitely the early bird. 

He rises with the dawn, stretching out his long gangly limbs and yawning something fierce, before slipping free of the sheets in a crackle of static electricity. He’ll score an apple from the bowl at the table—which Ruby constantly keeps stocked—and shuck on his sherpa-lined coat. Then he’ll stumble around trying to get his boots on in the morning dark, clinging to the faded wallpaper, cursing worse than a sailor when he stubs his toe a time or two. 

Johnny, on the other hand, lounges for as long as he can. Even when he wakes up, he stays safe within the warmth of his duvet for a little while. He’ll close his eyes and soak up the sunrays beaming through the skylight, or watch the rain trickle down if it’s that kind of a morning. He’ll listen to music or scroll through his feeds or text people—anyone, really, it doesn’t matter just so long as he’s not left alone with his thoughts—and finally decide if he doesn’t leave the confines of his bed sometime soon, he downright never will. 

He and Harley meet each other somewhere in the middle. After Harley’s spent a good hour or two shuffling through damp, foggy mornings, boots flecked with mud and his knuckles red-raw from the cold, Johnny will come find him. Some mornings he’ll come find Johnny instead: thumping up the stairs with a tray of tea and pancakes, and Johnny will flush pink at the sight. He’ll tug at his hair in distress and say, “You didn’t need to make me breakfast, Harley.”

Harley’s always got something to say to that. Sometimes it’ll be a raised eyebrow and a, “As opposed to every goddamn morning?” or he’ll shrug self-consciously and mutter, “Just wanted to.”

That always grates at Johnny, because Harley—God, Harley runs himself ragged for everyone else. He’s worse than Wile-E Coyote; he runs on fuel made from compressed, compact love, and he’s got enough of it to go for miles and miles without a breath. That scares Johnny, because at some point Harley’s gonna run so far he doesn’t even realise there’s no ground beneath him, and he’ll fall just like in that stupid cartoon. 

On those days, he grabs Harley by the arm and they share the food.

* * *

Harley’s room is dark. His salt lamp casts an ethereal sort of orange glow across the walls and bedsheets. Johnny’s got his nose jammed into the side of Harley’s thigh, palm on Harley’s knee, and Harley’s got his guitar in hand. He plucks and strums his way through wordless songs that pull at Johnny’s eyelids, make him feel heavy. He hasn’t slept in a solid forty hours and thinks Harley can tell. In fact, that’s probably why he’s here, and as much as he’d rather set Harley’s eyebrows on fire than accept his pity, he’s _so fucking tired._

This, though: his warmth, his presence, the quiet rustle of the papers taped to the walls, lifted with the midnight breeze. He thinks he could fall asleep here, lulled and languid. 

The song changes into something sweet and complex. Johnny can hear wheat fields and wildflowers and jagged cliffs in his mind’s eye, even before Harley opens his mouth to sing the first incomprehensible string of syllables, like a foreign marble rolled between his lips. 

“Oh,” Johnny breathes. Every ounce of his exhaustion melts away into keen curiosity. 

Harley navigates what Johnny identifies as Gaelic with the type of ease that could only come from years of practice. Johnny hasn’t heard much Gaelic, not really, but every word is said surely and with distinction. It runs through him the way the wind runs across the ocean’s surface; the way grass grows green and stretches towards the sun; the way wildflowers push through layers of snow to birl beneath the sky just once. 

Harley finishes with a twangy little note, his finger swaying on the fret. 

Johnny looks up at him. He’s eyelashes and cheekbones and eye-wrinkles, a crooked front tooth and chapped lips, mischief in the crease between his brows. 

And Johnny, with a juxtaposing swell in his gut and a settling in his chest at once, is so in love with Harley Keener he could die. 

He’s _in love_ with him. In the realest kind of way, the way that grabs him with clawed fingers around the throat, strokes his hair from his eyes, and slips down the back of his throat like melted ice. 

Harley looks down at him and when their eyes meet, it feels the same as always. And maybe that says more than anything else could. 

Then Johnny sits up, his knees bumping Harley’s arm and the side of his guitar. 

To be closer. To let these champagne bubbles land in his stomach before he does something stupid like laugh helplessly and kiss him full on the mouth. 

“Harleh Kayner,” he trills, in a truly awful impression of an Irish accent. He’s overcompensating. Oh god. The L-word makes his chest feel funny. Johnny nudges Harley’s knee. And really, what a knee. “I didn’t know you listened to like, old folky shit.”

“You know my music taste contains multitudes.”

Johnny snorts, weirdly dizzy. He leans into the feeling, into Harley’s shoulder. “Fair. I’ll never recover from that time on the bus with the—”

“The screamo, yeah,” Harley smiles nostalgically, thumping their foreheads together. “That was fun. The look on your face—wow, I’ll never forget it.” 

Johnny flips him off but smiles into the hard curve of Harley’s collarbone. “Have you got another? More Gaelic, I like it. Sounds like springtime.” 

“Here’s one called _Siúil A Rúin._ It’s one’a the only things my Pa taught me before he skipped down to those rolling fields in the south,” Harley says cheerfully, in a startlingly _good_ and sort of sexy Irish accent, setting his fingers on the neck of the guitar. He taps the knuckles of his other hand on the wood and then starts plucking. 

This one isn’t slower, but it is dreamier. Softer, sweeter, like Johnny could wrap himself in the itchy wool of it and nestle into a corduroy couch, tea in hand, sun drying the grass wheat-yellow; studded with sweet bluebells and chicory. Johnny wants to skim his hands through it. Be good, be steady in his skin, be rooted. 

Harley leans a little closer. His breath smells like the apples they ate after dinner, and his sweater smells like damp wool, and it’s home. 

Johnny’s breath catches. He rolls the flavour of this in his mouth like a sip of something strong, the fumes a sluiced column up his throat, the weight of it settling heavy somewhere behind his eyes. He watches Harley’s profile as he slips into a higher register, voice steady and delicate and soft. 

Johnny can’t even make coherent thought. Harley is _here,_ beside him, and he’s peeled back layers right down to the heart of him, and Johnny is almost sure that this is the most of Harley he could ever see. This is the sugar in his chest pulled out of his mouth in strands. This is the embodiment of those nerves that shake his hands. This is the stuff that fills him tip to toe, the stuff that he worries about, the stuff that he loves. This is music and the place it comes from, and Harley is saying: here it is for your hands to catch. 

Johnny takes it and holds it to his chest, near his heart. He loves it, all of it. 

The night ticks on. Harley’s fingers dance, and his voice lilts until he runs out of Gaelic and resorts to just strumming. When that ends, Harley’s chin finds the curve of Johnny’s neck. It’s as if that little weight, too, is something for Johnny to hold. 

His palm finds the back of Harley’s neck and squeezes. Harley hums. 

Johnny turns his nose into Harley’s curls, closes his eyes, and thinks: _I’m fucked._

* * *

**_an ode to johnny storm as he drives_ **

- _harley keener_

it’s so easy for your knees to go wide

you thoughtless, feckless thing. you 

straddling the steering wheel, one foot

languid on the accelerator, like you

could do this in your sleep. you

drive in dreams, ripping up asphalt in spurts

of pebbles and dust. you

eat the horizon, hungry. you

with the headlight eyes. you

point me through the night. 

it’s so easy for your elbow to sit 

in the widow’s open mouth. you

like the breeze on your face, like it

dancing through your hair. you

lean into it. you

rest two fingers on the steering wheel

at six o’clock, her navel, her sweet spot. you

could use your two fingers much better. you

could use me as your navigator much better. you

make the straight and narrow mean nothing. (this is so much better.)

it’s so easy for your lips to drift

apart, a huff of breath like springtime soughing out. you

don’t talk when you drive, but God,

baby you _sing._ you

spit out every wrong word to raspberry beret. you 

move a hand onto the the gear shift and

wiggle your hips. you

mouth at the neck of a melody. you

exhale into its heat. you

make me want to shut up and listen. 

it’s so easy for your heart to beat

when you’re sinking into my worn leather. you 

don’t weigh much but every pound is 

another mile to map with my fingertips. you

drive like you want it to love you back. you

drive like the streets kiss your heels

and you’re achilles. you

think you were born to run away. you

think driving will get you gone faster. you

never accounted for my wheels chasing your dust. 

(in other words: fuck.)

* * *

“Those fucking Frog and Toad assholes,” MJ grumbles as she crawls onto Peter’s bed. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun, strands hanging in her eyes, the whole thing five seconds away from bursting out of its little velvety tie. Peter reaches forward as she makes her way over to him, tucking some of her loose curls behind her ears. “Thanks,” she says, and then shoves him backwards onto his pillows, physically wrapping his arms around her. She noses into his throat, warm. “Harley’s been texting me thirst poetry for _months,_ Peter. If I have to read one more line about the graceful curve of Johnny’s lower back I’m going to spray paint the Columbus statue at the circle into a Minion—are you laughing? Stop it. Stop laughing right now, Peter. Peter, shut your stupid mouth.” She pushes up onto her elbows and shoves her palm over Peter’s lips, scowling. 

She’s so cute he could drop dead. 

Peter kisses her palm and cuffs her wrist with a hand. “You’ve gotta give them time to figure their shit out,” he says, muffled, lips dragging against her skin. 

MJ removes her palm. In recognition of the true valiance she must exude to endure his presence, he settles his other hand on her back and drags his fingers along her spine. “Besides, I can appreciate the graceful curve of a back. Yours, for example, is exquisite.”

“I’m exquisite, generally,” MJ agrees. “But this isn’t about me. It’s about Harley and Johnny.” 

Peter brushes his knuckles over her cheek. She closes her eyes and leans into it, visibly softening. “I just… They deserve this. Something like what we’ve got. They should get to have that too, you know?”

“I love being the pinnacle of modern romance and all, _but,_ ” Peter pauses to tug MJ flat on top of him, to which she huffs. “You’ve seen how sad Johnny’s been. Even if you haven’t known him as long as I’ve known him, you can tell he was ground down to nothing after Sue died. Johnny is the most enthusiastic, emotional guy I’ve ever met, and it makes me so fucking sad that you didn’t really get to see that in full form.” 

She starts digging her fingers into his ribs because she knows he hates it. 

“Ouch. Ow, MJ, MJ—” she hits a ticklish spot and he jerks with a squeak. MJ laughs triumphantly. “Stop, stop, I’m being really serious and thoughtful right now,” he admonishes. “Our friends need our help. Alone, they are disasters, but we can make them functional. We’re Life Alert, but for the gays.”

She sticks her tongue out at him. 

“Are you gonna let me speak?” he asks, in an uncanny impression of a preschool teacher. 

MJ tilts her head to the side and pretends to consider. “Maybe so.”

“You’re so very distracting, Michelle.”

“I do my absolute best to distract you literally all day long. I do it like it’s my job, and frankly I should have gotten a promotion by now.”

“You’re unsettlingly good at it. The CEO of feeding my already prevalent ADHD.” He shakes his head hard enough to recalibrate the brain machine. “Harley and Johnny. What I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me—” she scoffs, “—is that there’s a _reason_ Johnny isn’t the same anymore. And sure, he’s better than he was in December. It’s impossible to deny that, right? Like, these months with Harley have been so good for him. He’s finding a new normal, and it makes sense that he’s scared to change things. He doesn’t wanna lose that.” 

“Plus Harley is just plain old weird.” 

Peter barks a laugh and gives her a squeeze. “He’s weird eighty-seven different ways to Sunday, sure, but you can’t really blame him. His normal is being ready to lose everything in the blink of an eye.”

“He never texts first,” MJ points out. She reaches up and starts pushing Peter’s hair into a sweaty-palmed faux-hawk. “He screenshots like, all of my Snapchats, and not in a ‘ _I have a secret crush on you’_ way. He does it in an ‘ _I want to remember that you wanted to talk to me’_ way, which is like, so sad. He’s so used to losing things that he doesn’t know how to keep them.”

Peter hums. “That was so eloquent and smart. Are you going to be a therapist? You should therapize everyone. Everything in the world would work itself out so fast.”

MJ rubs her palms all over his head, mussing his hair completely. “I just think that if they keep waiting, they’ll never be ready. Why _wouldn’t_ this be the right time for them, you know? Johnny is settled. Harley literally can’t lose him, they _live_ together. It’s not like Johnny is about to up and leave.”

“He loves the sheep too much to go anywhere else.”

“Precisely.” MJ boops the tip of his nose. He grins up at her and she flips him off again. “This is their chance. The stars are aligned or whatever. Wanda would probably say something like that.” She afflicts her voice with an accent that Peter assumes is meant to sound like Wanda’s, but it’s so far off that it’s hilarious instead. “The chakras are in order. The situation is properly manifested.”

“Should we burn candles to help?” he asks, biting back a smile. 

“Yes, and pull Tarot cards.” 

Peter winces. “No more Tarot cards.”

MJ laughs so hard her whole body shakes with it. Peter’s eyes trace the line of her long neck, the way it melts into her shoulder, and really feels for Harley and his anthologies of odes to Johnny’s crevices or whatever the fuck. 

She leans forward slowly, a smirk forming, curls falling into her glittering eyes. She says, “I think the vibes are pretty good for us tonight, Tiger.”

Little Peter jumps to attention. “Do you?” he tries to feign extreme coolness as he leans up. Their lips are inches apart. Her breath smells like Cheetos and he doesn’t even care. “Did the chakras tell you that?”

She brushes their lips together. “The chakras are tellin’ me something, alright. Is that a hunk of rose quartz in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

“I’ll give you three guesses.”

“Mmm. I don’t have to be a fortune teller to— _ah—_ tell that my future’s lucky.”

* * *

Harley pops two pink Benadryl out of the sheet of tabs, throws them back, and swallows them dry. 

“That’s my least favorite thing you do,” Johnny declares. 

He’s sitting on the closed toilet lid with his legs crossed, watching for some reason. He’s all ready to leave for school, but instead of waiting in the kitchen like a normal human, he’s acting like a needy baby duck. 

Gosh. He’s the only weirdo Harley knows who’d wear a beanie indoors. 

“What, take meds to get rid of my migraine?”

“Swallow them dry. Ugh, _disgostang._ ”

“I’ll make sure the tiny version of ABBA thumping to Man After Midnight between my ear holes gets the message.”

Johnny clicks his tongue and reaches out to hook a finger in Harley’s belt loop. He tugs gently. “Did you drink water? Eat food that isn’t buttered bread? Sleep enough?”

Harley ticks off on his fingers. “No, no, and no.” He grins brilliantly and then winces, because _ouch._

Johnny frowns. “You shouldn’t go to school like this.”

“I literally need to. Learning is the only thing getting me out of bed anymore.”

“Obviously the thought of me makes you hide under your pillow.”

“Duh. You’re a literal fire demon. Am I supposed to jump outta my sheets with pep in my step to meet that?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, well.” Harley blinks, shakes his head side to side. “That shit hits fast.”

Johnny perks up hopefully. “Is your headache gone?”

Harley tries lifting his arms. They’re very heavy. His hands shake. “No,” he says. “I’m just zoinked.”

Johnny bursts into laughter. Harley politely ignores how amusing he finds this and tries to pick up his toothbrush, only succeeding in knocking it off the sink and onto the floor. 

He stares at it sadly. “Anna oop.”

Johnny wheezes while patting Harley’s hip conciliatorily. “This is so sad. Alexa, play Despacito.” 

“Clearly you haven’t lived here long enough if you think we’ve got an Alexa somewhere in this house. That’s fucking terrible.” A beat. “Siri, play Despacito.”

Johnny smacks his forehead on the edge of the countertop. 

It’s a blessing from Thor himself that Johnny is the one who always drives the pair of them to school, because if Harley had been behind the wheel, they would’ve died already. Mama would’ve found the two of them plastered on the pavement, completely smushed. 

Epitaph: don’t do drugs and drive. 

Instead Harley has the luxury of watching Johnny in a blatant, unrepentant manner. It’s like he’s living in a fever dream; Johnny’s hair is so light where it pokes out from under his hat, his skin so smooth where it trails under the neck of his shirt. The tendons on the backs of his hands stick out like raised scars, bridges spanning rivers too deep to swim. The hollow beneath the hinge of his jaw; the dip at his clavicle, the very place his ear sits. 

Harley wants to taste it. He wonders, is it honey and early morning sunlight? Is it like the stardust he’s made of, the stardust that had clung to him after he came back down to Earth? Is it body wash and sweat and birthday-candle sanctuary-lamp Olympic-torch ashen? 

Harley wants to take to it, tongue and teeth, and find out. The not knowing is gonna kill him. There’s something about cats and canaries bouncing around in that especially dusty spot behind his eyes. He thinks he’s both; smug and smitten. 

The sunlight pours through the smudged windows and it’s too bright. The daffodils are peeking out early, fields of potatoes and carrot-tops sprawling for miles. It’s Julie Andrews’s wet dream. The horizon is singing, the hills are alive and thrumming to the tune of early spring. 

Against the backdrop of Rose Hill, Johnny _is._

They pull into the sparse lot. It’s the same as always: the school in the middle with the parking spots forming a perimeter around the building. The place had been paved like they’d expected more out of it—more bodies, more sanctity, more _anything._

Now they throw teenagers in there for lack of anywhere else to put ’em, so the place couldn’t be more unholy if it tried. There’s a group of black-haired kids on the front steps passing a metal vape back and forth, and some children playing a special kind of tag where the kid who’s “it” pantses everyone he slaps. 

This place is a stomping ground, a battle cry, a crook in a bandana shaking up a saloon. God left them here with this. 

But Harley is starting to think that maybe there’s something beautiful in being forsaken. 

Johnny sighs, taking it all in. There’s nothing on his face: just a look. Harley wonders if he’s used to how small everything is by now. The people, the brains, the space. The land is loud and ripe, but the people who dwell on it are country mice with country minds. 

Harley thinks Johnny looks good here. He makes something in Harley want to be saved; an angel giving penance in the dirt and dust of Tennessee. 

How goddamned ironic that he makes Harley want to fall to his knees and repent? 

Harley breathes for a moment, overcome. Then he grabs for the door handle and tries to get out of the truck. 

His knees don’t like that idea. 

He catches himself limply on the door, armpits hooked over the top of the window. Says, “Ow.” 

“You’re so _stupid,”_ Johnny proclaims, hustling around the nose of the truck to Harley’s side. “You big dodo. You really drugged yourself up just to come to school.”

“S’no worse than those eighth graders that come in smoked up everyday.”

“That’s a pandemic and should be addressed,” Johnny allows. He keeps his hands around Harley’s biceps as if Harley needs to be propped on a shelf like a limp-jointed action figure. “At least you didn’t do this out of addiction. Well, maybe you did—an addiction to being an absolute _moron.”_

“My eyeballs felt like they were gonna explode, Jay. They were like grapes in a vice. Did you want my eyeballs to explode like grapes in a vice?”

“No—”

“Then this is the only option.” Harley shakes out of Johnny’s grip and tries not to miss his warmth. “Take me to class, Jonathan.”

Johnny stares at Harley for a moment longer, considering. Then reaches out to push Harley’s glasses up his nose for him, thumb brushing up the length of the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, okay.” He turns, long strides taking them towards the squeaky double doors of salvation. 

The second question and perhaps the most vital of them both: how fucking _ironic_ is it that he follows an angel into church every day of the week?

Harley tries to follow and literally staggers like a drunk, like his father; each step feels like pulling his feet out of a pool of molasses. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Johnny calls over his shoulder, blatantly using his phone to record Harley trying to walk. Harley’s entire body is lightly thrumming from the inside. This is so dumb. His headache isn’t even gone. He just feels stupid. 

He kicks a pebble out of his path because even that could be the cause of his demise. 

“Oh, you are the most immature child I’ve ever met,” comes Poppy’s voice. She’s climbing out of the back seat of Shaved-Head Boy’s car, parked a few spaces away from the truck. Harley is fairly certain that kid isn’t even old enough to drive. 

“Come back to chat about immaturity after you get rid of your Strawberry Shortcake t-shirt collection, squirt.” 

Poppy huffs. “It’s _fashion,_ you wouldn’t get it.” She bumps his shoulder with hers as she walks past, the devil. 

“It’s true, you really wouldn’t,” Johnny agrees. He has no sympathy, which is apparent as he lifts his arms straight out and makes grabby hands. “Come on, you can do it.”

“I imagine this is what babies feel like before taking their first steps.”

“Enjoy the attention while it lasts, bumpkin.” 

Harley makes it over to Johnny, who slings an arm over his shoulders. “I’ll be your crutch, I’m a good friend like that. Also, I think you’ll fall and brain yourself on something if I don’t actively hold you up.”

“Gee, thanks.” 

“You’re welcome.” Johnny grins brilliantly. Harley has to look away to avoid being blinded. 

* * *

They make it to class. 

Harley falls asleep within minutes. 

It’s a soupy kind of sleep, weird and warped. He can half-hear even when he’s out of it. When he wakes up, Johnny’s taking notes by his left elbow, purple gel smudged on his left hand. Their books have been carefully arranged to hide Harley from view. 

A stupid kind of warmth erupts in his stomach. At the same time, however, an equally stupid pounding erupts in his brain. 

“Ow,” he whines quietly. “Oh, thees ees a nightmare.” He presses his cold fingers against his forehead to serve as a makeshift ice pack, thanking his ancestors for their shitty circulation. 

Johnny prods him with the capped end of his pen. “You good?”

“I’m dying, Egypt,” Harley declares. The mounting sinus pressure is going to force his eyeballs right out of their sockets. He’s probably going to puke all over his desk. The weight of the Benadryl is bearing him into the floor like metal to a magnet. This is true misery defined. 

“Mister Blake,” Johnny calls, hand raised, pen twirling idly between his fingers. Fucking Hermione Granger ass boy. The way the sight makes his heart skip is sickening. “I think Harley’s actively dying right here and now at his desk. It probably wouldn’t make very good press for the school if it got out that a kid croaked in the middle of US History. Should I take him to the nurse?”

Mister Blake doesn’t even pause his lecture. He waves in the general direction of the door. “You mortify me,” Harley informs Johnny, the same way some people might say _I love you._

“Sure, druggie.” 

He sits and watches Johnny collect all of their things, afraid his brain might fall out of his ass if he moves. Or worse: he’ll start crying. 

He cries enough. The whole history of him is sodden with his own salty fucking tears. 

With Harley’s bookbag over his shoulder and his own backpack over his front, Johnny reaches down and hauls Harley to his feet. 

Like an asshole, Harley sinks right back down into his chair. 

“Alright, take two,” Johnny says, sparing a wayward glance at the class, all of whom are now watching the Harley & Johnny show rather than paying attention to Mister Blake waxing rhapsodic about the minutemen or some other fucking war propaganda. 

This time, Johnny gets a shoulder under Harley’s arms before he can fall down, head pounding, a technicolor aura pulsing at the edges of his vision with truly breathless power. 

“My pack mule,” Harley rasps. “I mean—my hero.”

“I could’ve just left you here. Never forget that. I literally saved your life from death by education.” The door closes behind them. The hallway is utterly deserted. Johnny asks, “So are we making a run for it?”

“Duh,” says Harley, and then they’re off, the soles of their sneakers squeaking on the waxed linoleum. They push through the doors and Harley is heaving by the time they get to the truck, chest tight with more than mucus, and they’re both laughing by the time Johnny’s got the accelerator flat to the floor. 

Harley burrows in his big turtleneck, wrapping his arms around the two backpacks on his lap like they’re his little eggs and it’s his duty to keep them safe. 

It’s lucky Johnny drives so good, or he’d really give up the ghost by means of his meager stomach contents. 

He looks over at Johnny and settles deeper into his seat as all those acres pass. 

* * *

Johnny has to help Harley up the stairs. 

He’d been out of it for the rest of the ride home and still doesn’t seem fully awake, both from fever and medically induced delirium. Like, he’s lucid enough to grab the stair rail and flick the light switch on, but Johnny can tell he’s not all there. 

“Blessed cherub boy, sweet guiding moonbeam,” slurs Harley, stumbling a little at the top step. “Whatever would I do without you?”

“I think you’d manage,” Johnny says without thinking, kicking open Harley’s door.

Harley shakes his head adamantly. “No,” he says. “Nopety nope. Absolutely not.”

Johnny grunts and tosses his stupid potato sack of a best friend onto the bed. “You lived without me once,” he points out, now working off Harley’s boots. They fall with a resounding thud against the hardwood floor, muddy and well-worn. 

Harley still hasn’t replied, and Johnny assumes he’s just conked out again or something. He moves around the room, stashing Harley’s bookbag and shuffling through the medicine cabinet in the enjoining bathroom to take stock of what they’ve got. 

When he comes back in, he finds Harley scowling at the plaster ceiling. 

“Harley?” Johnny snaps his fingers under Harley’s nose. “What’s wrong?”

“Can’t live without you,” Harley says definitively. “You’re wrong. About before. That wasn’t—that wasn’t living. I didn’t know what alive meant until I met you. You can’t show someone what colour is and then take it away again, Johnny, that’s not how it works. I need you. I _need_ you,” he grabs at Johnny’s wrist, takes his hand to hold. “I’m too codependent now. You’re the tennis-ball walker to my broken hipped old bitty.”

Johnny stares down at him for seconds that stretch out into their own little eternities. Then he leans down without thinking much about it, following the reflexes of his body, the constant pull toward this sun-rich boy. He kisses Harley between the eyes. “What you need is sleep.” 

That should work, right? That’s the kind of thing a doctor would prescribe for sick people talking nonsense? 

Johnny tries to choke back his many anxieties, which seem to multiply by the second like Bellatrix’s cursed goblets in the _Deathly Hallows._ He pulls the blankets over Harley and promises to come back and check on him in an hour.

* * *

While he waits for Harley to get better—which sounds as ridiculous as waiting for water to boil or snow to melt—he does all the shit that Harley normally would. 

First he checks on the sheepies, filling up their trough with water and brushing out their wool. Then he sweeps out the barn and stacks the bails against the wall because Harley had mentioned something about a storm coming, and sure enough, by the time he’s done it’s pelting rain. 

He runs through the muck back to the house, shucking his coat and hat and shoes before trudging up the stairs. 

Harley isn’t in bed.

A strange kind of panic seizes Johnny. It’s a whiplash of white-hot flame that has him lurching for the bathroom door. Golden light spills from the crack below, stretching across the floor, interrupted by his shadow. He tries the handle but finds it locked, so he knocks. “Harley?”

No answer. Another knock and nothing. Johnny might scream. Instead, he hurries into Poppy’s room and rifles through the little glass dishes at her vanity, snatching up a bobby pin to pick the bathroom lock with. 

“I’m coming in,” Johnny warns in a voice that shakes. Then, lower, “Please be decent.”

It clicks open and there’s Harley, bent over the toilet, face white as a sheet and the back of his shirt soaked in sweat. 

“Okay,” Johnny breathes, dropping to his knees beside Harley. “Okay, alright. You’re fine, hear me?”

Harley grunts something awful and squeezes his eyes shut. “Headache,” he rasps. “Real bad.”

Johnny nods. He helps Harley lean back and then flushes away the throw up. Then he grabs a clean rag from the towel rack and wets it with cold water, pressing it to Harley’s forehead. “Back to bed or stay here?”

“Bed,” Harley says.

It’s slow going just like before, but they make it. Johnny flicks on the bedside lamp and perches on the edge of the mattress, helping Harley get settled. He uselessly fixes the pillows and straightens the rag, and then cups Harley’s face without even thinking about it, strokes his jaw and cheek. 

“What else?”

“Can’t breathe out of my nose,” Harley says, sounding congested enough to prove it. “Achy bones. I feel like that fish from Spongebob—the one with glass bones and paper skin? Icky.”

“Icky,” Johnny agrees. “I hate this for you. I’m gonna get you water and more medicine.”

“And tea?” Harley asks hopefully, raising his head a little.

Johnny nods. “And tea.”

“With honey?”

He feels his lip quirk up. “With honey.”

* * *

Poppy comes back right when he’s putting the kettle on.

She’s completely drenched, hair plastered to her forehead, dripping everywhere in the hall and grousing to boot. “How is he?” she asks breathlessly when she sees him by the stove. “Not dead, right?”

“Not dead,” Johnny agrees. “Just real sick. Why don’t you shower the mud off? I’ll put a towel in the dryer for you so it’s warm when you get out.”

He doesn’t even know where the words come from, but they both know they don’t belong in his mouth. It’s never anything he would have said even six months ago. Poppy takes it in stride though, makes him feel less strange about it. “You’re a peach, Johnny,” she says, and brushes past him to get to her room. 

Johnny starts on dinner. He decides to make something simple that Harley won’t have a hard time with, and so he dumps four cans of chicken middle soup into the crock pot and sets it on medium. 

Ruby’s working a double tonight, but there should be enough leftover for when she gets home. 

Johnny turns the heat up. The storm is relentless. Wind slaps against the walls of the house and Johnny can’t even see the road through the window above the sink; it’s just varying shades of grey, with the outlines of bare tree branches peeking through faintly. 

The stairs creak, and Harley’s door does, too. It’s dark in his bedroom and smells strongly of eucalyptus; Poppy had set up her oil diffuser in the corner of the room. 

Johnny takes the half-empty mug of now cold tea and dumps the rest down the sink. He collects all of the used tissues Harley had tossed, lights an unscented candle to see where the hell he’s going without disturbing Harley by turning on the lamp again, and changes out the rag. 

Lighting flashes through the thin gap in the curtains. Thunder rumbles, closer now than it was before, and in the bed Harley whimpers at the sound. 

Johnny freezes. He stares, not sure he’d heard right, but it only gets worse when the next clatter leaves Harley _sobbing._

Johnny jerks forward, choking on nothing, on air. His hand makes contact with Harley’s shoulder and Harley flinches, curling into a tight ball as he softly cries. “Please don’t,” he croaks, feverish, still out of it. “Don’t. Don’t hurt—” a hitching breath, “ _no._ ” 

Johnny makes a sound like a dying animal and looks—around, at Harley, down at his useless hands. Desperate, he climbs over him so they’re face to face and pulls him into his arms. “Harley,” he whispers, “baby, it’s me. It’s Johnny.”

Harley only cries harder, but some of the tension leaves his body. His fingers curl around the fabric of Johnny’s sweater in a white-knuckled grip. Johnny can only hold him, can only lie there and be, and breathe, and whisper words of calm.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he promises. “Everything is gonna be just fine. I’m right here.”

He’s here. He’s not going anywhere. Harley will never have to worry about living without him again.

* * *

When Ruby gets home, it’s late. Johnny sits at the scratched kitchen table under the dangling ornamental light, tracing the ridges and grooves in the wood.

Ruby’s got bags under her eyes. Her hair is frizzy and damp. “Hey, baby,” she says breathlessly, dropping her keys into the little bowl and grabbing her cardigan off the heater where he’d laid it to rest. 

“There’s soup,” he says. 

Ruby nods. She’s got her mind on a million things, probably, and mutters to herself as she pours herself a mugful. 

“Harley’s dad hit him, didn’t he?”

Ruby freezes. There’s a pause that transcends the room; a quiet that cuts as deep as the night itself. Sound simply ceases to exist. Johnny’s heart doesn’t beat again until, “Twice. Once that I didn’t know about, and then the other time right in front of me. Never again after that.”

Johnny feels a piece of his soul chip away and die. He nods tearfully, screwing his mouth up in an effort not to cry. “Oh.”

Ruby sits down carefully. “He was… he had problems. Drinking, gambling. He would yell at them more than anything, though. Bang things around just to see ’em both shake, throw dishes at the wall, break chairs.”

Johnny’s blood goes cold. He realises that the very chair he’s sitting in is the only one not to match the dining set. He’d taken it because it was the odd man out, just like him; a knockoff of the rest. 

Now he knows why.

“I didn’t realise.”

Ruby tilts her head. “Why would you have? He keeps real quiet about it, they both do.”

“Yeah, but…”

_But._

But Johnny thought he knew everything about Harley. He thought he’d gotten everything down, memorised all of his quirks and beats and scars. He thought he’d heard every story, thought he’d mapped all the ins and outs. Now pieces are falling into place he hadn’t even known were missing; the way Harley always crowds into himself at loud noises, the way he gets so upset whenever Johnny gets worked up or pissed off. Johnny had never understood the way Harley would treat him in those moments, like a rearing horse he was trying to avoid getting trampled by, arms out to calm; careful and fervent and wide-eyed. His fear had only made Johnny more angry, because he hadn’t _understood._

Now he does, and he feels sick. 

Ruby gets out of her hair and drops down by his, bare knees on the cold tile floor, weathered hands holding his own. “He had a whole life before this, just like you did. Didn’t want you treating him like glass, just like you. But it doesn’t mean he doesn’t trust you, and you shouldn’t feel bad.”

“But I do,” Johnny croaks, throat raw and hot. “I _do,_ because how—how could _anyone_ ever hurt him? Why would you _do that?_ Why would _anyone—_?”

Ruby grabs him, wraps him all up in her cherry pie scent and rocks him back and forth. She shushes him, warms his spine. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “I really don’t know. Some people just grow crooked, sweetheart.” 

Johnny clings. He sobs against her neck even though this isn’t his tragedy to cry over. This is not his wood-rot, it is Harley’s and Poppy’s and Ruby’s, but he’s a part of this tree now, and so it hurts him too. Makes him feel sick just to think about it. 

When he finally calms, Ruby leans back. She holds his face in her hands and smiles softly. “You know, sometimes I look at you and forget you aren’t mine? I know it’s probably selfish to say, what with you having your own folks and all, but I’m just so happy to have you here. I love you so much, did you know that?”

He hadn’t. Johnny rests his forehead against her own and looks down at their hands. He sniffs and feels about as small as a six year old. “I love you, too.”

And he means it. He really, really does.

* * *

The thing is, Johnny’s warmth is a reservoir. 

And it’s a big one; so deep that finding the bottom would take ages. It’d take an explosion of heat and brilliance, would take a tap against his neck like he is a maple and everyone’s starved for his syrup; would take him going Nova one too many times, painting the sky red like a tube of paint getting stepped on. Smeared, apocalyptic sandstorms and late-July plum flesh. 

But there is a bottom. 

Sometimes Johnny wants to dive down into it, the magmatic pits of himself, just out of morbid curiosity. He wants to find that rocky base, to tear up the cragged basalt and andesite with his fingertips until his nails go bloody: to dig himself a deeper reservoir so that he’s got more room to store, and even more to give. 

Because the thing is, Johnny’s always lending his warmth. 

He loves to do it. There’s something about the way he can make a muscle relax with one touch—Peter, a pizza, and a rooftop; Sue, a too-wide bed, their parents gone; the kids, a movie flickering on the wide-screen, popcorn kernels littered in their hair. 

Harley, a barn or a hammock or a plastic cafeteria chair, and a hand. 

The thing is that Johnny, just once, wants the warmth to be given _back_ instead. 

It’s a craving that he pushes down to the pit of his stomach, because when he looks at Harley, at Peter or MJ or Ruby or Poppy June, all he wants to do is pull the heat from them like a snake skin, like an afghan. He wants to slip into it, cocoon himself in the knitting. He wants it pulsing in his chest like a second heart, all muscle and movement. He wants to be smothered in the warmth of them, to know it’s not just him that could go blue-lipped from loving them so hard. 

The thing is, Johnny can’t feel the cold, but he knows it like a mirror. 

* * *

“Wanda, I require your sage advice.”

Wanda doesn’t look up from her notes. “I recommend burning it in a well-ventilated area. Hold the leaves at precisely forty-five degrees and blow out the flames after 20 seconds exactly. Also, if you’re using it to better connect with your spirit, I recommend smudging salvia or white prairie, but they might cause some light psychoactive effects.”

Peter blinks in the doorway of her bedroom. “All very fascinating, but I meant more like the old lady kind.”

“Old lady kind?” she asks, brow furrowing. 

“ _Advice,_ my Woods Witch.” 

“Oh!” Wanda says. “ _Oh!”_ Then her eyes narrow. “Don’t think I’m going to gloss over the fact that you called me an old lady just because you called me a Woods Witch right after.”

Peter nods. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. So what’ll your wisdom cost me? My dignity, my left nut, my firstborn child?”

Wanda rolls her eyes and pats her floral bedspread. Peter eagerly plops down, pleased at the invitation, and spreads across her bed _Breakfast Club_ style. 

“What do you need advice for?”

Peter sighs. “I have a dilemma. 

“Go on.”

“I have this friend,” he starts. “This really good pal of mine who’s in love with another really good pal. Suffice to say we’re _all_ really good pals, but they both wanna be _more_ than pals with each other and they’ve both told me instead of telling each other. It’s driving me absolutely insane.” 

Wanda frowns. “You mean Johnny and Harley?”

“Yes,” he whines. “See, at first I was willing to let this whole thing play out on it’s own, but MJ’s convinced me that it’s getting kind of ridiculous. They’ve been living in the same house for _four months,_ for Chrissake, and they _still_ haven’t even gotten to first base!” He flops onto his back and folds his hands across his stomach. “I just feel like I’m lying to them both all the time. Like, I _know_ it’s not my place to rat either of them out. I _know_ I should just let them dance around it until they’re both ready. But also: MJ raised some really good points. Namely the fact that it’s been _four months.”_

Wanda leans over him. “You’re right, it’s been four months. _Four months_ since Johnny lost his entire family in a tragic accident that left him borderline catatonic.” 

“An extremely valid point, and one I’ve considered at great length. But on the flip side: what if he needs this to move on? What if it’ll be good for him? I don’t want him to pass up on the whole thing just because he’s got some kind of martyr complex going on.”

Wanda hums, clicking her pen while she thinks. Then, “I think in order to properly analyse this situation from all sides, we’re going to have to be stoned.”

“Wanda, my darling, I couldn’t agree more.”

* * *

When MJ stumbles into the Rogue House later that night, kicking off her Nikes and un-shouldering the burdensome weight of her ten-ton backpack, she finds Wanda and Peter splayed out on the other girl’s bedroom floor, starfished and wide-eyed.

“Holy shit,” Peter revels. “It really does say ‘Paul is dead’ when you play it backward.”

“See?!” Wanda explodes upward, reaching for her little portable suitcase record player to stop the needle. She kicks Peter’s shin. “MJ.”

“MJ? Oh, don’t get me started,” he says, to which MJ’s spine literally spasms, but then, “she’s got the prettiest eyes. Like, everyone says brown eyes are boring and I kind of used to think that too, but then I met her and like, I just get sucked in every time. Also she smells really good. I kind of feel like, uh, completely unworthy? And I’m just _so_ in love with her. So, so in love. I miss her. _Fuck,_ she’s awesome.”

Wanda’s grinning down at him. Then she jerks her chin in MJ’s direction. Peter’s head flops to the right and eyes widen. He jerks up onto his elbows. “MJ, hey! Please tell me you just Apparated in right this instant and weren’t around to hear what I just said?”

She feels her lip quirk up. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

He flops down like a disappointed dolphin and flaps his figurative flippers, squishing his cheeks between his hands. “How embarrassing! The mortifying ordeal of being known!”

MJ gives Wanda a _can you believe him?_ look, to which Wanda replies with a shrug. “The poor kid’s high,” she says.

“Yeah, I can tell.” MJ sits down beside him. The floorboards creak beneath her weight and she adores the sound, will always relish in well-loved, worn out things: paperback novels with dog-eared pages and writing in the margins, sweatshirts found in the bottom of the lost and found bin with someone else’s name on the tag, houses that have height marks on doorways and ghosts in the walls.

Or in this house’s case, Bucky Barnes. 

Peter crawls toward her and rests his head in her lap. MJ reflexively starts stroking his hair back, running her thumb over the curve of his ear, and then down to trace his jaw. “You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

“Yeah, but I don’t wanna scare you away with all of the, uh, feelings. Emotions. I know you don’t like that stuff so much.”

MJ’s just about to argue with his smush-faced ramble when Wanda snaps her fingers. “That’s it!” she says. “They’re just scared of it, and the longer they wait the worse it gets. At some point it’s just gonna overflow on them.” 

Peter raises an eyebrow. “So what conclusion does that lead you to?”

“Leave them,” she says. “Eventually the force of it will become so strong that they’ll have no choice but to succumb to it. You can only remain wilfully ignorant for so long.”

Peter harrumphs into the back of MJ’s knee. “Can I at least drop better hints?”

“If you must,” Wanda allows, and then, “Hey MJ, do you want a hit?” 

* * *

[4:34 AM, Saturday; _untitled note_ ]

_dear sue,_

_every time i start a letter to you, i convince myself it’s gonna be the last one. but then it’s night and im alone and searching for you in all the stardust. other times it’s the middle of the damn day and i’m washing dishes or feeding the sheep and it’ll hit me: something i want to tell you about—usually stupid shit Harley pulls—and i’ll laugh to myself, and my hand is halfway to my pocket to call you when I remember that no one is gonna pick up on the other end._

_today i want to tell you how grateful i am just to have known you. i never would’ve pulled your hair or stolen your eyeshadow palettes or talked back even once if I’d known how it was gonna end. or maybe i would have, because things like that always made you laugh._

_i can’t remember what your laugh sounds like anymore, sue._

_anyway, my point is that i took you for granted. you looked out for me even when i didn’t realise you were doing it, and now i’ve got this spaghetti armed rat bastard doing the same fucking thing, only he’s so obvious about it, so earnest, and it rips me up inside._

_i’ve come to the conclusion that some people are just born with wider eyes and bigger hearts and stronger bones, and those wide eyes see things the rest of us don’t, and those big hearts beat for other people, and those strong bones carry broken ones where they need to go. there are people, good people like you and Harley and Reed, who don’t live for themselves. you were the most unselfish kind of person, the most understanding. you knew what i needed before i even knew._

_but since coming here i’ve realised: some people are born that way, and others become that way. over the last few months i’ve been eating my hearty oats and drinking my milk and I think my bones are stronger, I think my eyes see more than narrow alleys, but instead acres and acres. i think my heart beats in a different way now, too. I put my hand to my chest and didn’t recognise the rhythm, but I found him and you in the steadiness of it._

_i love you, sue. always have, always will._

_yours forever,_

_-johnny_

* * *

Johnny understands that he’s been a bit of a log recently. 

An Eeyore, if you will. A buzzkill, a bore. Whatever. 

He knows he has a valid reason, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s been nothing like himself. No spark, no impulse, no brightness. He’s been flint with no fritz and it’s time for that to change. 

So he wakes, takes his meds with a gulp of shitty Keurig coffee, folds himself into layers of sweaters, and gives the sheepies a morning kiss. He pats Lucy’s head, and gives Barnabus a treat on his way out, because the damn cat looks like he might start yowling otherwise.

Then he gets into the truck and drives down to the quarter-store in town, an idea percolating. 

Something to give back, for once, instead of taking from their palms without a moment of consternation. He can at the very least give them something to smile about. 

Johnny fills his cart with vibrant green and orange things. There’s a light, bubbling feeling in his chest as he climbs back into the truck. He grins as he opens the windows and drives back home with the sun rising over his left shoulder, his hair flying right off his forehead. 

Quiet and careful, he creeps back into the house, key jangling from a loop of twine around his wrist. He holds his breath and waits for something: a sound, a movement—but there’s nothing. 

Perfect. 

Johnny drops his goods in the kitchen and rubs his hands together. He’s ready, for the first time in a long time, to start. 

He’d gotten a few bottles of Guinness from his plug-slash-boss Agnes from the consignment shop, and he sticks into the fridge. While he’s there he pulls out the yeast. Then he gets baking soda and wheat flour, and fills a measuring cup with water. 

It’s a good thing he’s fumbled his way behind Harley in the kitchen enough times by now to manage a loaf himself. 

When the sun gets high enough outside, the stained-glass ornament hanging from the window frame tosses the kitchen into color. Johnny looks down at the splash of crimson that lands on his wrist and feels himself smile. 

A little while later, he’s got strings of yeasty dough clinging to his fingers and a pan already tucked inside the oven. Johnny washes up and gives Michelle a call. He feels good about her potential to be an interior decorator, someday. That isn’t exactly saying much, because he feels good about her potential to be absolutely anything under the sun, but anywho. 

When she picks up, he’s glad he’d chosen to use earbuds. 

She lifts her phone wordlessly over her shoulder to display Peter, who is in the corner of her bedroom trying to learn a Tiktok dance to that mashup of Hava Nagila and Superbass. He’s singing along loudly, badly, and his footsteps echo when they hit the hardwood. 

“Culture,” Johnny whispers, snickering to himself. 

_“Good morning, dear Jonathan,”_ MJ replies, pulling the camera back to her. She wipes a hand over her face, clearly exhausted. He wonders if her and Peter got any sleep at all—if maybe Peter’s in one of his particularly manic phases, or if that streak of yellow near her temple means she’d been up painting into the early hours of the morning. _“Why are you up so early? Bad dreams?”_

“No, no, I—”

_“Is that Johnny?”_ Peter’s face appears on the screen for all of a moment before he promptly dives on top of MJ. He sends the phone flying and the image goes dark. 

_“Peter!”_

_“I’m sorry—here, I got it, I got it—”_

Johnny hears the very distinct sound of a webshooter being fired and MJ’s corresponding, _“Eurgh, on my_ phone, _loser?”_

Then Johnny can see them again: the both of them side by side on their stomachs, heads pushed together to fit into the frame. MJ’s curls are falling over PeterMs shoulder and they’re both grinning faintly, cheeks flushed. It fills his belly with something soft—pillow fluff and dandelion fuzz. 

“You guys are so gross,” he tells them. “So, so gross. I miss you so much it causes me physical pain.”

_“You sweet boy,”_ Peter says. _“Prairie angel.”_

_“Prairie_ oyster.”

“Did you just call me bull balls?” 

MJ lifts her chin smugly. _“Yes.”_

“Bonk,” Johnny says emphatically. “I would literally walk to New York to see you right now. I would like a kiss on each cheek from you two. I would climb onto your bed and lay between you. Petey, Johnny, Michelley sandwich.” 

_“Are you asking for a threesome right now?”_ Peter asks. 

_“Hmm,”_ MJ hums. 

Peter tilts his head. _“Hm.”_

“Oh my god,” says Johnny. 

_“I mean—I’m kidding, I take it back.”_

_“I don’t.”_ MJ grins wickedly. _“You want to top, baby boy, or should I?”_

Johnny smothers a laugh in his sleeve and drops his face into his hands. 

_“You look good, Flame Brain,”_ MJ says, a little softer. 

“Are you really trying to seduce me in front of your boyfriend?” 

_“Yes.”_

_“No,”_ Peter scoffs at the same time. He looks at her, aghast. 

Johnny just smiles at them. He doesn’t even know what to do with all the love he has for them. The next time he sees them, he’s literally going to bowl them over and then lay on top of them for several sunlit days. 

_“What_ are _you doing up so early, then?”_ MJ asks. _“If not nakedly sandwiched between the two of us making sexy sexy noises. Oh! We could do it right now over the phone. We’re already in bed. We’re two-thirds of the way there.”_

Johnny’s head falls back as he laughs soundlessly. Something about today, something about this moment, something about the sky being this particular shade of blue… it feels _so good._

“I just—” he shakes his head, hardly able to believe it. “I’m gonna decorate the house for Saint Patrick’s day and I wanted to consult your artistic eye.”

MJ positively lights up. _“Oh,_ nice.” 

_“I can just be here for eye candy,”_ Peter tacks on. 

MJ’s nose wrinkles. _“That’s all you’re ever anywhere for._ ” 

“Sometimes he’s good for being the muscle,” Johnny offers. 

Peter flexes a bicep the size of a very large mango. _“I will never complain about being sexualized by a member of this threesome.”_

Johnny shakes the nearest bag of paraphernalia. “Help?”

_“For you? Always,”_ MJ says sensually. 

“Oh my _god?”_ Johnny tosses a tiny felt leprechaun at his phone. “If Peter isn’t careful I will literally steal you from him, no cap. I’d duel for your hand. I could kick his ass.”

_“You could not kick my ass.”_

_“Put that garland along the shelves above the stovetop.”_

“I _so_ could kick your ass. I am flames. I’m literally Blaziken.” He hops onto the counter and lays the garland as nicely as he can, aluminum shamrocks catching the light from the window. 

_“I’m basically a sticky, angry rock, so.”_

_“Was that supposed to convince him?”_

_“... Shut up.”_

“I would totally just burn up a sticky rock with my fire powers,” Johnny points out, the _duh_ implied. He opens up some big tissue paper wreaths and holds them before the camera. 

_“Mantelpiece,”_ MJ instructs, while Peter says, _“Oh, right off the ceiling, dude.”_

MJ glares at him. _“This is not for you.”_

_“It could be.”_

“It’s not for you,” Johnny agrees apologetically. 

_“You guys are bullies,”_ Peter snaps. _“For shame. I’m gonna tattle.”_

“To who, May?”

_“To Harley._ ” 

“As if he wouldn’t trade your ass for the two of us any day.” Johnny laughs a little. “MJ and I are a package deal. You’re just the lame toy they throw in extra as part of the bundle.”

_“I’ll show you my bundle, Angel Cake.”_

_“MJ, I’m literally right here.”_

“You can show me your bundle when we’re alone together later,” Johnny tells her. “Peter’s bundle is not invited.”

_“My bundle would simply floor you. You’d be incoherent after being exposed to my bundle.”_

MJ clicks her tongue. _“Eh._ ” 

_“Why do you guys hate me?”_ Peter pouts, rolling over on the mattress so that all Johnny can see is the top of his head. 

“We only tease you because we love you,” Johnny promises. He makes kissy noises towards the phone while lifting some little folded cardboard doohickeys that open up into the shape of pots of shamrocks. He wordlessly gestures to MJ with some eyebrow movement. 

She mouths _“Centerpiece!”_ while petting Peter’s head conciliatorily. 

Johnny fist pumps the air and arranges them between the long white candlesticks Ruby likes to leave out. 

He puts out tiny mason jars painted orange, white, and green. He drops gold-wrapped chocolate coins on the counters with a few bits of festive confetti. From the cabinets beneath the kitchen island he hands a little banner: _LUCKY TA HAVE YA!_

Johnny’s just pinning a hilariously ugly, crotechtted little leprechaun to the fridge when Harley comes galumphing down the stairs, rubbing at his eyes, his hair a wheaty mess. 

“I have to go,” Johnny hisses. 

_“Oh! Have fun!”_ MJ says. _“I’ll call you when Peter leaves so we can continue our affair in peace.”_

_“I get left out of everything,”_ Peter sighs dramatically, but then he scoots close to the camera, makes a loud kissing noise, and says, _“Top o’ the morning to ya, my bonny laddie.”_

“You _suck,”_ Johnny says. Then, “Love you,” before he hangs up. 

“Did Saint Patrick himself shit all over my house in the night?” Harley asks, freezing at the bottom of the steps. His mouth is hanging open, a little disbelieving. One of his socks is dangling off the front of his foot. 

Johnny throws his hands out. “Lá Fhéile Pádraig sona duit!”

Harley bursts into a grin. “If you think I know enough Gaelic to riddle that one out, you’re sorely mistaken, boy-o.” He crosses toward Johnny with his hands held out, taking his face in his palms. His thumbs stroke Johnny’s cheekbones. “How long did you practice to say that right?” 

“An hour,” Johnny admits, leaning into Harley’s hand. “Maybe two.”

Harley hums. “That’s embarrassing for you.”

“Then why am I distinctly un-mortified?”

“Thick skin, thicker skull.”

“Oh, _ha ha._ ”

Harley is still grinning and he looks past Johnny, to the leprechaun on the fridge and the garlands and everything the hell else. 

“I know actual Irish people don’t really celebrate, but I figured it’d be—” Johnny flaps his arms like a hopeful baby penguin. “Y’know, nice.”

“It is nice. It’s super nice.” Harley sniffs. “Do I smell bread?”

“Soda bread,” Johnny says proudly. 

“You’re such a _doofus,”_ Harley declares. His grin is enormous. “Thank you.” 

“It’s the _least_ I could do. Literally the least. With everything you do for me… how could I not want to give something back?”

“You don’t—”

“Shut up.”

“No, listen, you don’t owe us—”

“Shut up, shut your stupid mouth.” 

Harley’s lip twitches. 

“T’was the luck of the Irish that sent me to ya,” Johnny says, swinging his bent arms a little, and Harley laughs loudly. 

There’s a thump from upstairs. “Shut _up,”_ Poppy’s voice comes, muffled. 

Harley raises an eyebrow. “I think she needs some holiday cheer, don’t ya?” 

“That,” Johnny says, “we can manage.” 

* * *

On the night of St. Patrick’s Day, Wanda puts green glitter on all of their cheekbones. 

“It’s what Carrie Fisher would want,” MJ obliges solemnly, leaning into the mirror of Wanda’s vanity and smearing it on her eyes, too. “Should I mix it with silver for a subtle nod to House Slytherin?”

Wanda tells her to do it. Peter watches them both move around the room. They both know what’s in every drawer, and seem to sense where the other is rather than actually looking. He realises that these days it’s hard to remember a time before they were all together; a time before Wanda, before Johnny. Peter imagines the tugging sensation in his gut is the same sort of thing the moon must experience as it’s lasso-ed by the Earth every day. 

Wanda laces her boots. MJ smudges her eyeliner. Ned sends a text to Betty. 

A thousand miles away, Johnny is doing something, too. With any luck, that ‘thing’ is Harley.

On their way out of the Rogue House, they pass May and Sam curled up on the couch watching a movie. The sight of them together no longer makes Peter’s skin crawl, but he still feels a general unease about the whole thing. 

Still, he salutes Sam when the older man calls out, “Have a good time, small fries!”

* * *

They’re supposed to just be fucking around at Coney Island.

That’s what they told Ned’s overbearing mother. It’s what they told May and Sam. It’s even what Peter told Tony when he’d asked over screwdrivers and nanobites. 

And to be fair, they do go to Coney Island—but only for a little bit. They wander the crowds and pet every single dog they cross paths with, because that’s the polite fucking thing to do. The Wonder Wheel is lit in flickering shades of green and white and gold. In the distance, waves crest and crash against the shore, and with his enhanced hearing Peter can even hear the seagulls mewing up above. 

They get pretzels. Peter buys MJ a hot chocolate and she gets whipped cream on her nose. He kisses it off, and then kisses _her,_ and then Ned and Wanda are chucking bits of salted bread at their heads because they’re apparently super disgusting for being in love or whatever. 

Then Wanda says, “I wanna ride the Thunderbolt.”

And Ned, poor dear, sweet Ned, who is deathly afraid of the damn thing and has been since about age nine, says, “I’ll go with you.”

Which of course leaves Peter and MJ alone. He doesn’t mind, and hopes she doesn’t either. She certainly doesn’t seem to when he takes her hand and leads her to the docks, swinging their arms between them. 

The closer they get to the water, the quieter it is. Peter watches all those colourful lights flash against the black sky, and then scans the beach where he’d once fought the Vulture. It seems like so long ago, like a scene from a movie he only saw once and doesn’t care to remember.

“You’re frowning,” MJ notes. 

He blinks. Focuses on her, and reflexively smiles instead. “Sorry.”

MJ’s brow furrows. “You don’t have to be sorry for that. It’s not a bad thing, it’s a normal thing. I just wanted to know if you were okay.”

Peter loves her. Really, honest to God. He can’t imagine standing against the frigid north wind with anyone else, can’t imagine holding anyone else’s hand, can’t imagine leaning forward to kiss anyone else’s cheek. He feels the truth of that swell up in his chest like the ocean behind them, and isn’t even really thinking when he pulls her into his arms to hold; he’s just falling with the tides. MJ clings back, and they rock a little like a settling rowboat.

He presses his lips to her temple and then closes his eyes, letting her warmth and clementine smell envelope him. 

“I’m okay,” he whispers. 

MJ hums. She cradles the back of his neck, which sends tingles down his spinebone, little jolts that echo all the way to the roots of him. “Are you sure?”

He draws back a little. Bumps his nose against hers. “Just sort of sad. Used to come here with Ben a lot.”

“Oh,” MJ says. And then, “Do you wanna dance with me?”

“What–here? Dancing? You, doing so voluntarily, as in: not at gunpoint or under threat of some other form of violence?”

MJ rolls her eyes and pulls at his hands. “Come on, just do it. Make new memories with me.”

And when she puts it like that, there’s really nothing else he’d rather do. 

* * *

Wanda and Ned find them a little while later. They’re both flushed and Wanda’s hair is windswept. She’s still brushing it from her lipgloss when she says, “Alright, enough kiddie stuff. Let’s do something fun.”

“We could sneak into a bar and get really drunk,” MJ suggests. 

“Jones, you dashing bastard,” Peter says. “Lead the way.” 

They don’t actually have to sneak in, per se: Wanda kind of just snaps her fingers and no one gives them a second look. 

Wanda orders for them and they commandeer a corner booth away from prying eyes out of sheer habit. Ned looks like a Hobbit with his gigantic pint of beer in front of him, but he downs it with surprising speed. 

“Kiss me, I’m Irish,” is what Peter says to her much later, after pulling her into the small alcove at the back of the bar. It’s by the bathrooms and emergency exit door—though MJ imagines the only actual emergencies it’s been used for are the puking kind. 

MJ shakes her head. She’s not nearly as drunk as he is, mostly because at least one of them has to be level-headed enough to safely guide them all to the subway at the end of the night, and for once she doesn’t really mind; appreciating the art that is Drunk Peter Parker hits different when one is mostly sober. 

“You are not,” she says, reaching up to swipe green glitter from his cheeks. 

“I am so, my shirt even says it!” He points to the print, even though MJ literally bought the damn thing herself, and accidentally bonks his forehead against hers in the process. “Whoopsie, m’lady, much apologies. Didn’t mean to conk yer gob.”

MJ laughs out loud. “Gob means _mouth,_ you big dumb, and it’s _British.”_

“Well my point still stands,” he says, sniffing haughtily. “My mother was a Fitzpatrick, and her father before her. I am of the ilk.”

“Is that so?”

“It is,” he nods eagerly, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her closer. “Which _means—_ ” he taps his mouth, “you’ve gotta plant one on me. It’s a rule, no getting around it. If you don’t you’ll have bad luck for like,” he thinks for a second, “ten years, probably. Could be more. Very bad juju, not kissing your _bhuachaill._ ” 

MJ raises her eyebrows. “You know the lingo?”

“Only from my fellow Irishman Mr. Keener,” Peter says. “My mom didn’t know a lick about the culture and she died before we could like, bond over it.”

MJ hums sympathetically. She wraps her arms around his neck. “That’s very sad.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “A kiss would help, though. Maybe make it a big one since I’m an orphan boy. We doleful waifs need more affection than most.”

MJ gets a head rush when she finally caves and closes the gap between them. It’s easy to write it off as being caused by her faint buzz or the thick smoke clouding the air, but she knows it’s more than that. The swooping of her stomach, the flutter in the otherwise steady rhythm of her heartbeat, the way her skin flushes with warmth and her body screams, _closer, closer, closer—_ that’s not alcohol or contact high, not shallow like a shot glass or thin like smoke; it’s eternal, growing constantly and always, wrapping its roots around the bones of her, ardent and heady and forever if they do it right, if they’re careful with it. 

But right now MJ doesn’t have any interest in being careful. She rips away and notes his blown pupils, his pink cheeks. MJ throws a glance over her shoulder and sees that Wanda and Ned are still cackling in their corner booth, drunk out of their minds. 

She grins, grabs Peter by the wrist, and yanks him into the bathroom.

* * *

“I feel like—” Peter holds up a finger and stops talking, mouth scrunching like he’s gonna be sick. Then he spins on his heel and points the same finger at a box of pasta noodles. “Mac and cheese.”

And it’s a testament to how long Ned’s known Peter that he’s not remotely phased by his best friend’s weirdness; he’s become an Olympic-level gymnast at jumping through the mental hoops that being around Peter for more than five minutes requires.

Instead he nods solemnly. “Agreed. It’s definitely a mac night. Are we feeling shapes, spirals, or the standard elbow shape?” 

“Well,” Peter puts his hands on his hips and scans the selections, “that’s a big question. I mean, the shapes taste weird, but the funky feeling in your mouth kind of makes up for it. Then you have the spirals—”

“Always more flavourful,” Ned interjects. “But somehow they get soggy way easier.”

“Exactly, thank you. On the other hand, you’ve got the elbow, which you can’t go wrong with. They’re like an old friend, or a dog: steady, reliable, consistent.”

Ned nods. They stand there for a minute in the middle of the dry pasta aisle, quietly mulling over their options. Taylor Swift is playing softly from the overhead speakers and there’s a toddler babbling like three rows over, but other than that it’s pretty quiet. 

“Shapes,” Ned and Peter say together. 

They look at each other. Peter covers his mouth with his hand and then shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut like he’s about to cry. “I fucking adore you, man. You’re just like, always on my wavelength.”

“Dude, shut up,” Ned fans his face, “I’m not about to have a breakdown about how much I love you in a grocery store.”

Peter nods. Sniffs, and then reaches out to hold Ned’s hand. They move over to the shapes section, both aware they have another decision to make now: theme. “Spongebob, Frozen, or the Avengers?”

“I think if I ate a Black Widow themed pasta noodle, Natasha Romanoff would be able to sense it even from all the way across town. It’d be like a pinprick in her left ass cheek or something and she’d just _know,_ and then I’d have to deal with her crawling through my bedroom window at three in the morning accusing me of cannibalism,” his nose scrunches up and his eyes cross, “‘ _Spiders don’t eat other spiders, Peter!’_ ”

Ned absorbs that. Then, “But isn’t that what black windows literally do—?”

“I can’t explain her twisted logic when I don’t understand it myself,” Peter says. He then goes for both other kinds. “Who doesn’t like a mix of Patrick Star and Elsa? That’s big brain energy if you ask me.”

Ned concurs. He grabs a few more boxes and adds them to their little handheld basket. They rove through a few more aisles and grab the bare essentials: soda, chips, Ho-Hos, a few packs of sour candy. When they’re finally satisfied with their haul, they go through the self-check out because like, they don’t need to be judged for their poor nutritional choices tonight. No sir.

Outside, MJ and Wanda are bouncing on their heels to keep from freezing to death. The cigarette hanging from MJ’s lips is explanation enough as to why they’d decided to bear the cold instead of waiting by the beet roots like Ned had suggested. 

Peter shows off the goods. Then he jerks his chin at Wanda. “You get the stuff?”

She glances around before pulling back her coat to reveal the bottle of Absolut lime vodka stashed inside. Peter grins, grabs her face, and plants a kiss right on her forehead. “I am absolutely feral for you, Wanda Maximoff.”

MJ rolls her eyes. “Aren’t we all? Now let’s go before we miss the train.” 

None of them argue, because like, why would they? MJ is literally always right about everything, all of the time. Ned leads his rat-pack down to the Q. On the subway, he clutches his grocery bags to his chest like an old lady worried some bum is gonna steal her challah. Wanda stands opposite him, scanning the crowd of drunk people in green clothes and leprechaun hats, eyes alight with intrigue.

It still kind of upsets him, the way all this mundane, everyday shit that he’s grown up with is stuff she’s never even seen before. The glamour has long worn off for natives like him and Peter and MJ, but for Wanda, it’s new and exciting; even the stench of alcohol is charming, the loud laughter and the humdrum talk. 

He watches her watch, and then flits his eyes over to Peter and MJ. They’re only a foot away, but on a subway car with all these bodies, it might as well be a mile. Peter is talking to her in a low voice, one hand tucked into her back pocket and the other cradling her cheek. Their noses touch, but instead of kissing, she kind of just leans into him and closes her eyes. 

God, they are _so_ married.

Wanda nudges Ned’s foot with her platform boot. “You good?”

She always asks, even if he’s smiling. 

Ned nods. “I’m good.”

* * *

MJ pats her forehead to make sure the card is still in place post-hiccup. Then she takes another swig, finally comfortable enough to be drunk now that she’s safe within the confines of the Parker Shoebox. 

Her legs are all tangled up with Wanda’s in the bathtub. She doesn’t remember how or why they ended up here; just that they are, and the porcelain tiles are freezing cold, and Wanda keeps interrupting herself to laugh and then drink, drink and then laugh.

MJ knocks their knees together to get the other girl to focus again. “Am I a mammal?”

“You’re—” she snorts. “Yeah. Yes. Mammalia.”

MJ nods. She takes a second to think. “Am I bigger than a loaf of bread?”

“I think so.”

“You _think so?”_ MJ thrashes, snagging a near empty bottle of body wash to hurtle at Wanda. It misses by like, a foot. “Do I come in varying shapes and sizes? Also, that question doesn’t count because of the way you answered the other one.”

Wanda pinches her nose. “You’re like—you grow.”

“Oh my fucking god.”

“I don’t know!” Wanda flails. “You start off smaller but you can get bigger. It depends.”

MJ is gonna lose her absolute shit. She shakes her head. “Alright, your turn.”

Wanda grins and struggles to sit up. The clover-shaped gem she’d stuck on her cheek earlier is missing, and on her card is what looks like a firehose, but it’s drawn so badly it could also be a snake. MJ decides it’s the latter because like, who the fuck would ever guess ‘firehose’ in 20 questions? What was she thinking when she drew that? _Did_ she draw that?

“Am I— _hic—_ a living thing?”

“Yes.”

“How many eyes do I have?”

MJ holds up two fingers. “Standard amount.”

“Animal?”

“No.”

“Fur?”

“No. My turn.”

Wanda whines. “But yours is so _boring.”_

MJ could scream. In fact, MJ _does_ scream. It’s shrill and echoes off the walls in the little square room, and it makes Wanda cackle. “I’ve had it!” MJ snaps, ripping the card off her forehead. She then squints down at the crudely drawn dog there. “What the fuck, Maximoff.” 

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” Wanda rips her own card free and scrunches her face up at what she sees. “A firehose?”

“ _What the fuck!”_

Absolutely unbelievable! The audacity! Outraged, MJ literally rolls out of the bathtub. She’s on the floor and attempting to stand, grappling with the shower curtain, when the door jerks open. Peter gives the tiny room a cursory glance, probably searching for some kind of threat, and then settles his gaze on her when he finds none. “Um…?”

MJ heaves a sigh and holds her arms up. “Help. Can’t figure out how to use my legs.”

He grins and obliges her, and then takes it a step further by scooping her up into a fireman’s carry. MJ squawks, and then proceeds to inelegantly flop back in his arms like a very dead fish. She sticks her tongue out at Wanda, now upside-down from her perspective. “I win.”

“You gave up first!”

Peter snorts and carries her out, careful not to hit her head on the doorway. He drops her onto the couch in the living room and MJ clings to the corduroy as the room spins. He leans down, smooths her hair back, and kisses the crown of her head. “Dinner’s almost ready. I’ll get you some coffee.”

“With cream and—”

“Two sugars,” he finishes. “I know.”

It’s such a small thing, but the feeling that swells up in her chest is so _big._ MJ could cry. He knows, he knows. Just like he knows her favourite kind of tea is cinnamon and keeps a box in his cupboard, and has three of her favourite books on his bedside table, and her favourite vanilla chai candle on his windowsill. He _knows._

Peter’s brow furrows. He asks, low and soft, “Why are you crying, Emmie?” 

She shakes her head because there’s no way on God’s green Earth she can coherently tell him, no way she can just _say it;_ those words which are too tender to even think, this feeling which is all-encompassing and inarticulable. Instead she smushes his stupid face in her hands and macks him on the nose. “I just think you’re really neat.”

His smile is blinding, utterly disarming. She wishes she could draw it just the way she sees it. That way she could immortalise both it and the feeling that comes along with it; the rush of warmth, the fluttering in her abdomen. 

MJ wipes her cheeks dry as he goes. 

* * *

Harley’s belly is good and full with buttered soda bread and Guinness. Johnny’s tucked under his shoulder on the porch swing, while Poppy’s asleep in Mama’s lap on the itchy outdoor couch. Barnabus is curled on Johnny’s right thigh, his back rising and falling with every breath. The five of them are doused in darkness, hardly more than shadows. 

Harley’s got a loose grip on his sweating bottle of beer. The sky is so black he thinks it could swallow him whole, turn him into that silvery stuff all smattered across the horizon. He’d like to glow. Bioluminescence could be cool. 

Maybe he’s a little drunker than he thought. 

He turns his face toward Johnny’s, presses his nose against the dip of his temple. Little strands of Johnny’s hair brush against his cheeks and he scrunches his face, shakes his head without pulling away.

Johnny huffs a laugh, nearly inaudible, and turns so that their noses slot against the other. Harley snorts. His lips are numb, his stomach is fluttering. Johnny is close enough to kiss. 

When Harley smiles, Johnny smiles right back. There’s something magic in the moment of it. 

“This is the best I’ve ever felt,” Harley breathes, a helpless laugh slipping out. His hand slides up from that spot between Johnny’s shoulders to palm the back of his neck. “This is… the strangest, best moment of my life.” 

Johnny presses their foreheads together and hums. “I’m so happy to hear that.”

Harley closes his eyes, thinking of the way Poppy had danced through the grass in her long white dress, scream-singing _Rescue of Mabon_ into the primordial shuffle of the sky. He thinks of the way Mama’s eyes had filled with tears that hadn’t fallen, they’d just shone, and there’d been a smile on her lips, hands steepled by her chin. He thinks of the way Johnny gave this to them. This amazing, brilliant day. This day, where Mama laughed more than he’s heard in ages. This day, where Poppy tracked muddy footprints in the kitchen and ate mouthfuls and mouthfuls of cheese spread on bread. This day, where Johnny watched them all with hopeful eyes and straightened the garland on the shelves every time he thought they weren’t looking. 

Harley leans in a little. There is only a hair of space between their lips. It’s all Guinness breath and wet heat, Johnny’s fingers brushing feather-light against Harley’s cheek. A sound like a suckerpunch comes out of him. 

“Harley,” Johnny breathes. 

“Okay,” Harley whispers back, and then he leans away a little. The crowns of their heads stay pressed together. “No, you’re right.”

“One perfect day,” says Johnny. 

“One perfect day at a time,” Harley agrees, giving Johnny the gentlest of headbutts. 

When Johnny smiles, Harley can feel it against his skin. He shuffles and returns Johnny to that perfect spot under his arm, not even having to look, for he’s long memorised the hooks and valleys of his wildfire boy. 

He looks over to the other side of the porch. Mama is looking at him already. She winks, and he winks back. 

Then he tilts his head back to look up at the cereal-milk sky again. 

Another perfect day to come. He can feel it itching beneath his skin. 

* * *

(written on a piece of scrap paper in one of Harley Keener’s many notebooks): 

**MIRROR BOY**

this is the way of you: 

skewed, scattered; shattered silver shards 

across hardwood floor, prismatic light glistening on these overripe walls, 

but all you see is the part where you are broken 

on your back, looking up, always looking up at the cracked high ceiling, 

you don’t see what i do when i am looking down 

onto you, into you, 

there is no bottom to your belly, your roots have no end. you echo on for miles and keep growing the way the universe does, with edges that cut my fingers to touch. 

you see the blood but i see the light, 

i track the way it bounces, cascades, and shimmers.

opalescent with the winking moon, 

fluorescent in the grocery aisles and bathroom;

when the sun touches your skin you are blinding, 

but i’ll still look anyway, 

still hold anyway. 

this is the way of me: 

to touch you, to comfort you. to reach out with shaking fingers and trace the cold hard of your skin

to close my eyes against your dappling luminescence.

you’re holy like the fragmented pieces of a caved in cathedral window, 

ancient like lighting in sand, 

consumed by fire, combusting into something thin and delicate,

i cradle you in my cut palms like you are blown and beautiful. 

this is the way of us: 

to stare, to reflect, 

to look and look back, 

to chafe against and reach for, 

you can be broken 

and 

bright at the same time 

* * *

Johnny cannot stress enough the fact that _he didn’t mean to._

One minute he’s digging through Harley’s floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in search of something soft and familiar to bury himself in, and the next he’s got a beaten-up sketchbook in his hands and tears pouring down his cheeks in earnest because it’s _him_ on the pages. 

Him, nose wrinkled, trying to work a comb through his curls. Beside it, Harley had scrawled _even in disarray, there’s some sort of celestial order to him._ Him, asleep on folded arms. Beside it, _perchance to dream._ Then, in cursive neat enough to be biblical calligraphy, _this bitch head empty. he dreams about cheese & peppa pig. _ Him, blatantly scratching his armpit with his lips screwed to the side. Beside it, _I freeze and burn, love is bitter and sweet, my sighs are tempests and my tears are floods, I am in ecstasy and agony, I am possessed by memories of him and I am in exile from myself._

Johnny, stretching, double-chin tucked ugly to his chest. Johnny, shirt riding up, flashing a strip of tummy soft over the elastic of his boxers. Johnny in the classroom, eyes glazed. Johnny driving the truck, legs spread wide and one hand on the wheel. Johnny shirtless with his chin tilted upwards, neck long and thin save for the cracked jut of his adam’s apple. Johnny, wet-haired like a rat. Johnny, wide lips downturned. Johnny, scowling, angry. Johnny, seated on a soft couch like he owns it. Johnny’s knobby ankles and dimples and his nose smattered with freckles, Johnny’s worst angles smudged in graphite and made to be Harley’s, like being drawn with that great and terrible hand makes him the best he’s ever been. He’s the stuff of dreams and stories when plastered on these pages. 

He traces the curve of his own eyelashes. They’re blond, and long, and stick straight out. He’d never thought of them as interesting until now, seeing them cast candlelight shadows onto his own cheekbones, Harley’s spidery cursive in the corner: _i’d need him light and dark and sun-smattered. i’d need him eight ways to sunday and back again. i’d need him, lips and ribs, socks and sweaters, barebacked and sweaty-browed. god. i think of him and i am the everything to his nothing; i think of him and he is creation and i am the palms cupping it; i think of him and there is nothing to fix, so i drop my tool belt and polish him and put him to bed in sheets that smell like chamomile and cashmere and i love him so big and desperate that it hardly fits in my chest._

A date—January 12th. 

A bang, the door hitting the wall. 

Johnny jumps and the sketchbook falls from his hands like Eve with the apple, caught red-handed. Harley’s grin slips from his lips like sap in summer, thick and sticky. 

“I didn’t mean to look,” Johnny blurts, “but I did, and I saw, and I just couldn’t stop.” 

“Johnny,” says Harley. 

“I only looked at a few pages,” Johnny goes on. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, doesn’t know what to do with his heart. “I only—I only looked at a few pages, and then I—”

“ _Johnny,_ ” Harley says again, wretched. 

“They’re really amazing. They’re all the worst parts of me and they’re amazing.”

“You’re crying.” Harley doesn’t move. “You’re _shaking,_ you’re—Johnny.”

“Why didn’t you show me?” Johnny shudders through a sob, mopping snot off the bow of his lip with his sleeve. “You should’ve—you should’ve showed me, they’re _of_ me, you should have—”

“Should have _showed you?”_ Harley demands, and _oh._ That vague, mortified absence is gone, and anger sits in its place; fire that burns blue against Johnny’s red, like staring the devil in the eyes, like screaming in his face. “Those are personal, those are—that’s my business, it’s my business what I draw, it’s practically my _diary—”_

“Well, it’s my face,” Johnny points out again, suddenly feeling defensive. It’s always been his go-to move to push the blame, shove it elsewhere and away. It only worsens matters when Harley starts forward and grabs the book off the hardwood, clutching it to his own chest like Johnny’s hands had scorched it, like he’s pulling it from a hearth to save it from burning. 

Johnny shoots to his feet. “What the hell, Harley? What is this, Golem with the One Ring? Why are you being so fucking territorial? It’s just a _book.”_

But even as he says it, he knows it’s not true. Yes, it’s a book: leather-bound and well worn, pages ripped and torn and smudged and dog marked, some loose and falling from the binding.

But it’s also more than that. It’s everything Harley sees with his eyes that he wants to remember forever. 

“That’s beside the point,” Harley snaps. “You can’t just come into my goddamn room and steal all my goddamn socks! You can’t look through all my shit like it belongs to you! Jesus, didn’t you ever learn about boundaries when you were a kid?!”

Johnny suddenly feels sick to his fucking stomach. His hands shake at his sides and he curls them into fists, tight, hoping to press this out of himself, seismic. “You’re just fucking embarrassed,” he shoots back, and then watches as it hits Harley right between the eyes. He takes a step back like he’s been slapped, his cheeks flushing in kind. 

Johnny doesn’t stop, even with his subconscious screaming that he should, in a voice that sounds like both Reed and Peter combined: _shut up, shut up, shut the hell up, Flamebrain! You’re gonna ruin everything!_

And so he says, “I don’t understand why you’re acting like such a Regina George about this. If Peter can see it, why can’t I? What’s the big deal?”

“What’s the big deal?!” Harley looks like he could run Johnny over with a tractor without blinking. “What the _fuck_ do you think the big deal is? You can’t just _decide_ what parts of me you’re entitled to know about! You can’t invade my fucking privacy and act like I’m wrong for being upset! And since when the hell are you and Peter talking about me behind my back?!”

“We’re _not!_ He mentioned it in passing and I got upset because I didn’t even know it _existed_ —”

“So, what, you looked for it?”

“ _No!”_ Johnny can’t remember the last time he was this angry. His blood is boiling. His skin is steaming. “I told you that I found it by accident! Unless you’d like to accuse me of lying—” 

“Yeah, actually, I would! Big Fat Liars for $300, Alex! Who is: Johnny Fucking Storm!”

Johnny is gonna lose his absolute shit. He yanks at his own hair. “Like I’d wanna see your shit drawings anyway! You can keep them to yourself, Harley, because I don’t give a fuck about any of them, understand?”

Then he’s shoving past him, mouth full of bitter black. His chest heaves as he stomps down the stairs, and then proceeds to slam the front door so hard that the windows rattle. The sound reverberates off the walls of his skull, and his own heart is like a drum beat, and he’s burning, he’s on fire, alight for the first time in months. 

* * *

Harley hates that watching Johnny as he’s flying away is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

He is a blazing, bright streak across the horizon—a flaming angelic loogie snotted out the heavenly body of something greater than Harley could ever be. 

Harley watches it and, as if he’s being pulled, walks onto the porch. Dreamlike, hovering outside of himself. This moment is no longer his. 

It’s being written for him; a gentle nudge in the right direction. It says, _wait._ It says, _you know him._ It says, _he’ll come back._

Sketchbook in hand, Harley sits on the edge of the steps, knees bent to his gaping chest, and waits for Johnny to return. 

* * *

To fly in the rain, Johnny has to focus like hell to evaporate the water before it touches him. 

That’s good, the focusing. It means he can’t think for a while. There’s just heat under his skin like live wires, and around him like mid-August with his toes in the Pacific, and Sue under a big straw hat, and Reed sunburnt raspberry pink, and Ben brushing sand out of his terracotta crevices. 

Beneath Johnny, through that swath of lacy orange, Rose Hill is sodden in early-spring. The grass is yellowed, the trees barren. Whatever livestock that mills around is soaked; he imagines matted cows colored brown and sheep turned grey. 

That’s the thing about springtime: he’s used to seeing it on TV, gilded and jewel-toned, ruby berries and miles of verdant grass and undulating fields of yellow wheat. In the city, spring is silver and soupy with soggy dog shit underfoot. Here, it’s mush. Nothing quite lives up to his expectations, and it hits him like an avalanche. Nothing will ever be like he wants it to be. There’s no perfection. There’s no moment for them. There’s no perfect day, because this world is too fucking jaded to hand it to them. 

He flies like he hasn’t in months—not since the way he and Peter used to race to the Chrysler building, to Central Park, to the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts for something pink and sprinkled. When he grows so tired that an aura picks up in his eyes and his head feels strangely light, he stops. 

He turns around and heads home. 

* * *

When Johnny comes back, he’s not burning anymore, but he is still searing. He’s at the edge of the lawn, and he’s walking like he’s headed into battle, a soldier with a purpose, smoking and set with determination. But under that all, above it and around it and within it, he’s Johnny, and that’s what really matters. 

It’s that which makes Harley jump to his feet, notebook falling out of his grip. He crosses the lawn to meet him, strides long, heart in his throat. His glasses cover with a film of water, and his boots slip against the grass, and he and Johnny collide like a pair of lost fucking embers. 

He takes Johnny’s face between his palms, thinks _now, this, you,_ and kisses him. 

* * *

It figures that just when he was sulking about nothing meeting his expectations, Harley goes and shatters that belief into a million little pieces. 

Johnny’s spent time thinking about this. Stolen seconds in the midst of mid-day chores with the afformented boy only ten feet away, scooping shit and shoveling hay; at night, with the same boy right beside him, skin awash in silver from the moonshine; minutes that turn into hours—fuck, he’s probably spent _days_ imagining what it would be like to shove his tongue down Harley Keener’s throat, but _nothing_ compares to the reality of it. 

His expectations? Met. His boots? Completely full of water, probably overflowing at this point actually. His fucks to give about that? Nonexistent. 

There’s a part of him, subconscious, that is committing all of this to memory—the just in case part, which screams constantly that nothing good ever lasts, but this will. It will, he knows it, because to be kissed by Harley Keener is to be cemented, to be born for the first time, to make history, to begin an era anew. To be kissed by Harley Keener is to have his head tilted back and his fingers fisted in wet cotton, to cling and to be clung to, to surrender and push back at once. 

Harley rips away. Somehow the aftermath is better than the act itself: wide eyes, flushed cheeks, raindrops on his eyelashes, lips parted like even _he_ can’t believe what he just did. 

And some part of Johnny is dimly aware that even if he’s not actively on fire, he’s still warm enough to turn the rain into curls of steam. 

Harley is touching him anyway, burning himself anyway, would rather be scorched like the patch of grass Johnny ruined when he landed. 

Johnny takes a deep breath. He lets the rain touch him. He says, “I didn’t mean it.”

A blink. “What?”

“Your drawings,” Johnny blurts, because he has to say it. “I didn’t mean it when I said they were shit. They’re not shit, they’re great. I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have looked, but I was just—I was so fucking _happy,_ Harley. I thought you didn’t like me like that and then I—”

Harley kisses him again. Johnny makes a tiny noise of surprise that turns into something else, something deep and content. _This,_ he thinks. _This is the only way to exist._

Harley’s lips travel to his cheeks and his chin and his nose, before lingering on his forehead. “I like you,” he whispers. “I more than like you, Johnny.”

“You like me squared?”

Harley grins, but there is something soft in it, something so fond and tender. It makes Johnny feel the sweetest kind of something. “Stupid ass,” Harley says, softly, happily. “I’m in love with you.”

And _oh,_ so that’s what Keats meant when he said _love is my religion; I could die for that, I could die for you._ Johnny’s heart stops beating in his chest and he knows that words are just sounds, just vibrations and syllables, but even still those are the best ones he’s ever heard. That’s the sermon he’s going to worship to for the rest of his life, the verse he will quote to prove that life has meaning. 

“Oh,” says Johnny, like the idiot he is. “That’s so gay, dude.”

Harley laughs so hard he probably busts a lung. “Oh my god,” he says. “I want—I want you.” A kiss to Johnny’s nose. Down the side of his jaw, his throat, the nip of teeth. Into the skin of his neck, Harley says, “Wanna… lick you. But I can’t do it again. Physically. You’ve bested me, you stallion.”

“You wanna _lick me?_ Why, Mister Keener,” Johnny is exuberant, smiling so wide he’s afraid his face is gonna split right open, “you utter _dog!”_

“Dog,” Harley hums, and he’s so hunched over that he must look like an idiot, but he noses against him and Johnny loves him. “Let’s get a dog.”

“We’ve got plenty of animals,” Johnny says, letting his hands skim up the back of Harley’s neck, fingers playing with the overgrown ends of his hair. “Lucy and all the sheep. December and February and June and the rest.”

“One for every month of the year.”

“So we’ll get a cat for every week.”

“And a ladybug for every hour.”

“And you,” Johnny says, “for every minute.” 

Harley pulls away just enough to meet Johnny’s gaze. The heat has melted from his eyes and he’s left glazed, softened, like melted butter. The sky could clear from this. It doesn’t, because this is realer than any fancy story, but it could. That’s how much Johnny feels. 

“You,” Harley says, “are brighter than I ever could’ve dreamed, Johnny Storm.”

Johnny grins a little. “You’re everything I hoped you’d be,” he promises. 

Harley leans in, stuttered like he’s not sure he’s allowed. Johnny tugs him closer by the ear. The kiss is chaste, quick, just Harley’s beeswax chapstick and the slick of rainfall, but it’s perfect. 

“Let’s go inside,” Johnny says. “Let’s go home.”

Harley knocks his knuckles against the spot between Johnny’s ribs like he’s rapping easily on his own front door and says, “Oh, baby. I’m already there.” 

* * *

The last day of March dawns pale and grey. 

For the first time in a long time, Johnny wakes up before Harley.

He lies there for a minute, watching gaggles of geese fly in V-forms across the hazy sky. He can hear them calling to each other through the cracked skylight window and thinks, _Welcome back, we missed you. Did you have a good winter?_

Then Johnny shifts, propping himself up on an elbow to look at the sleeping boy beside him. 

Harley lays on his stomach, probably because even in his most relaxed state he’s still too afraid to be vulnerable, to show the soft flesh of his underbelly. His cheek is pressed against the white cotton pillow and his eyelids flutter softly. 

Johnny tilts his head to the side and considers him the way a connoisseur of art might consider a painting. Harley was not made by him, and certainly is not for him alone; he’s for the world, for the taking. It would be selfish of Johnny to ease him off the wall and keep him for himself, tucked away from all those eyes that ought to be looking—everyone should be looking at this boy, everyone should be trying to get their hands on this boy. He’s the Mona Lisa of Colonel Sanders and touching him would inflict the worst kind of ruin. 

But Johnny, ever the curious, the impatient, the petty and selfish and childish, reaches out anyway. 

He brushes his fingers over the ends of Harley’s soft curls and thinks, _so that’s what they feel like._ He traces Harley’s jaw, strokes his cheek, his lower lip, and memorises the softness, the warmth radiating off his skin. 

He’s not _for_ Johnny, but Johnny’s found a part himself in the Starry Night-like golden flecks in his eyes, in the length of his gangly limbs, stretched out Creation of Adam-styles—always wanting. He could stare forever, searching for more and more in every smattered scar and freckle. He suddenly understands the way Sue could wander those museums for hours on end—much longer than Johnny had ever cared to. He’d bitch and moan and drag his feet after her as a kid, while she soaked it all up with wide eyes and a tilted head. 

Johnny sighs. Draws his hand back and shakes his head. “Nah,” he decides. “Even da Vinci wouldn’t do you justice.”

Harley cracks an eye, the faking bastard. “Pardon?”

Johnny ignores him. He grins instead and pokes the spot in Harley’s cheek where he knows a dimple crests, and like magic, there it is. “Morning, dumb-dumb.”

Harley’s grin widens into something big and stupid. He says, “Mornin’,” right back and then leans up. There’s no hesitation in the way he kisses Johnny, no second-thoughts. He kisses Johnny like he does it every day; like this is the seven-thousandth morning rather than the very first. 

And Johnny, who’s gotten to know the cold so we’ll he considers it an old friend, feels his face flush with warmth. He melts into Harley, lets himself be swallowed up into the magmatic heat of it; he is the sun at its zenith, the Earth’s tumultuous raging core. 

Harley abruptly rips away. “Johnny,” he rasps, and then reaches up to cup his face. 

“What?” Johnny’s brows draw together. “Are you okay?”

“Am _I_ okay? You’re hotter than a house with an open oven door and no AC. I think you caught what I had. Do you feel sick?”

“I can’t get sick,” Johnny says without thinking. “I can boil the germs out of my bloodstream. That’s why I took care of you.”

Harley stares. “What.”

Without answering, Johnny rolls off of Harley. He puts his face in his hands to hide it and wonders if his cheeks are actually as red as they feel. “I just need to like, cool off.”

“Oh my god, is this like, the Human Torch version of a boner? Is it like how in _Twlight,_ Edward was worried he’d lose his shit and fuck Bella so hard she’d literally die? Do you get normal people stiffies or do you just set your drawers on fire?”

Johnny is simply unable to stop himself. He disregards everything else and zeroes in on: “Drawers? You call them _drawers?”_

Harley is unabashed in how much this entire situation is amusing him, despite the fact that the collar of his shirt is now damp. He leans in closer and asks, low and conspiratorial. “Be honest with me: do you jizz lava?” 

“Oh my god!” Johnny throws his hands up and stumbles off the bed, hopping free of the twisted sheets. “I’m gonna take a cold shower.”

Harley throws his head back and cackles. 

* * *

**to someone i once called something (because i can’t quite forget)**

-harley keener

i always worried that all you’d taught me was how to run. 

i always worried that with your nose between mama’s eyes i’d be sniffing out fires before the smoke alarms could scream, packing up my meager things and ripping up road beneath my feet like i’m all raging and no rivers. 

i always worried that you’d taught me to fix a car so i’d have an escape route, so that my guitar-playing fingers and i could find a new street corner to stand on, so i’d be warbling _'S toigh leam fhìn Buntàta 's Ìm_ with my back to ireland and my eyes on a jagged city horizon, _running._ nowhere to go. 

lately you’re all i see. 

lately you’re in the garage, hunched over the hood of a truck you’ve never touched, whistling between your teeth, your overalls stained eight different colors with paint and grease and beer (it was always beer, always dark).

lately you’re in the kitchen stirring soup and hoisting poppy onto your shoulder and laughing your big loud bear laugh and you’re smashing chairs and slamming doors with window-shaking force and you chuckle with every thunder rumble overhead. _this house._ you haunt it, as if it were ever yours. 

you never learned how to stay. 

you never learned how to grab something and hold on because you love it so good, not because you’re scared of what you’ll be if you lose it. 

you never learned how to know me, how to roll words off your tongue in languages i’d understand someday, because you thought you knew my hands and that was enough for you. _these hands._ i’m grasping at everything, at goddamn smoke, and i’m making it mine. 

there’s someone, now, and i think you’d hate him. 

there’s someone, now, and he’s a livewire, jumping on your couch and sleeping in your barn and skinny dipping in your lake, feeding your fireplace and turning this house into something so hot the very thought of it’d burn your calloused fingers. 

there’s someone, now, and i love him like you never loved my mama, like you never let yourself feel love, like all that potential was bottled up and i drank it under the full moon and now i can love big enough for the whole of everyone out there, enough to fill this boy to the brink and buoy him and bury him in it. _someone._ i say _someone_ as if he isn’t the only one there ever was, the only one there will ever be. 

sometimes i think about what you’d say, if you could see me now. 

sometimes i think about the echoes that never would’ve sounded if you’d stayed. 

sometimes i think about how you hurricaned across the coast of me, the cliffs and crests, and all you left me with is a thought that repeats, a stuttered heart beat, and enough empty cabinet space to store the best thing i’ve ever had. 

what i’m trying to say is thank you.

what i’m trying to say is fuck you. 

what i’m trying to say is i’ve got it good. 

i’ve got a lot of somethings these days, pops. 

your fault that you ain’t around to see it. 

**Author's Note:**

> listen. LISTEN. it’s here, it’s insane, we know, but please god please let us know what you thought!!! there will be more!!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [i feel god in this chili's tonight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24880810) by [soperiso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soperiso/pseuds/soperiso)




End file.
